The Book of Woe
by MarquessaS
Summary: Bobby is on the hunt for a nasty little book in New Orleans, and enlists the brothers' help. Dean quickly finds what lies at the heart of it all.
1. Chapter 1

PART 1

Bobby Singer was the unofficial librarian of the hunter community. His knowledge of chants, spells and incantations was rivaled only by his large collection of rare and dangerous literature. His simple, faded home was a valuable repository of deadly knowledge. He worked hard to add to it. Anyone who visited was mystified by the elaborate and complex locking system in place; what in this shabby and simple house could warrant such measures? But those who knew, understood.

On countless occasions, the Winchesters had called upon Bobby for help in difficult cases. He always came through. Thus it was when he called Dean to discuss a particularly nasty little book. Bobby had heard of this small, old journal long ago. It's spells, and their unhappy effects, had surfaced from time to time. Bobby always chased it, to no avail. It inevitably seemed to be pulled underground again. Until now.

He'd heard of it again. It had apparently been used in New Orleans. A few spotty details of a particular form of mayhem had surfaced in that old Louisiana city. Details that pointed to a powerful incarnation of vodun, more commonly known as voodoo, seemed to indicate that the little book was once again in the hands of someone skilled enough, and cold enough, to use it effectively. And Bobby needed help in chasing it. He had a sharp mind, sharper than most, but he wasn't young anymore...and if things got difficult he'd need someone reliable watching his back. Sam and Dean were his first choice; they were both strong, and always ready to jump into the fray. And the added bonus was that they were currently touring in the south.

* * *

><p>Dean got off the phone and pursed his lips, leaning back in his chair and pushing his toes through the soft sand at his feet.<p>

"What...?" Sam asked. He was nervous about the answer.

"Bobby. He wants to meet us back in New Orleans. He's got a lead on some kind of voodoo book he's been after for a few years, wants us to help him track it down."

Sam's gut tightened with worry. Their recent experience in that state was hardly easy, and it was the last place he wanted to return to. But he kept his concerns quiet for now. "Really? Huh...that's something we haven't seen in a while. Where is it? What does he want us to do?"

"He's calling back to confirm. He wanted to know if we were in first. I told him _yeah_, of course."

Sam nodded. _Of course...anything for Bobby_. He'd saved their asses on so many occasions; they owed him big time. But damn, it _had_ to be back in Louisiana_._

"Voodoo.." Dean mused. "That's pretty weird shit. Must be an important thing, this book...he's sure coming far to go after it."

Sam nodded. He had nothing more to say, but his expression spoke for him.

"_What_, Sam..?" Dean sighed.

"It's just...I'm a little skittish about going back there, after..."

"And you think I'm not? Hell, Sam, there's a million other places I'd rather drive through right now, but Bobby needs this!"

"I know, Dean. We owe him. He wouldn't have asked-"

"If it weren't important. And anyway, Sam; it's not like the whole state is full of Jessups. We just had the crappy luck of tangling with that bastard. It'll be fine."

* * *

><p>They'd both been having itchy feet lately. After some initial Winchester-style distractions, they'd enjoyed five harm-free and laid back months of Mexican life. Work had been plentiful; the resorts were all in dire need of construction labourers after the devastation of the last hurricane, and they'd rented a room through a fellow resort employee. Javier was one of the kitchen managers and he'd delighted in sharing his culinary skills with his two newfound friends. They didn't mind it either. And they had been able to return the favour by solving a little vengeful spirit issue for Javier's kin. They were tanned like mahogany. And finally, after all the injuries and mishaps that had plagued them before, they were both strong and healthy again. And <em>bored<em>. Even in such surroundings, a vacation can grow stale if it stretches too long. Sam hadn't realized just how much he enjoyed the mental challenges of figuring out the various mysteries thrown their way. He missed that aspect of the hunt. And Dean was showing signs of adult ADHD by now. He was tired of planting palm trees and pouring concrete. He needed to feel some adrenalin in his veins, and if he didn't, he would have to substitute tequila again, and end up picking fights and finding trouble here in paradise. Bobby's request for help was actually very timely.

But leaving, well...it wasn't going to be easy. Both brothers had adapted well to the lifestyle offered by the Mayan coast. The sun, sand, the sea…and the people who had welcomed and accepted them. And christ, the _food_. Javier's cooking was impeccable; Sam was hardly able to even contemplate the idea of road-grub again. But he knew, —they both knew; that this was going to end at some point. He was surprised and grateful that it had lasted this long. They'd both been able to heal and relax, and the pace here was just what they needed to regain some sort of positive perspective. But nobody in _real_ life lived permanently with so many palm trees, or an ocean of that particular shade of blue. This was a fantasy. The pause had been perfect, but they were part of a more visceral life and it was useless to ignore it. When Bobby called back, they knew it was time to return to the real world.

* * *

><p>After all the tearful goodbyes, the parties, the drinking &amp; toasting, they found themselves back on the road to Texas. Both were silent for some time. Knowing a change was inevitable didn't make it any easier. The hangovers didn't help either. Sam had the first shift at the wheel. Dean sat in silence, examining the string of calluses on his fingers; he was getting decent at playing the guitar, thanks to Javier. His tutor's choice of music was pretty cultural; hardly his own...but with practice, he could have extrapolated to playing the type of tunes he liked. He'd actually thought of picking one up, second hand, but he finally decided against it. It would take too much room in the car, and Sam was liable to juicy-fruit it over his head after listening to his novice twanging for hours on end. Maybe later…some other time...some other life.<p>

"Did Bobby say where we were supposed to meet?" Sam asked, breaking into Dean's reverie.

"Holiday Inn on Chartres. He's at least a full day behind us. We'll set up there and wait for him. Don't know why he wanted that place, not exactly _cheap_." Dean griped.

"Holiday Inn? Oooo...Klassy." Sam answered. He smiled to himself. It wasn't _that _expensive. But Dean felt completely out of sorts unless he was slumming to the lowest common denominator with regard to their accommodation. It was one of his many little quirks.

* * *

><p>They passed through Texas without incident, and continued on to their destination, trading driving duties periodically. Dean wore his tension on his face, after his last experience there. He scanned the ditches, trying to be prepared for anything that could possibly have the stupid idea of leaping out in front of the car, or worse, flashing lights behind them. Nothing did, thank goodness. They reached Louisiana in darkness and silence. At last, in the wee hours, they found their hotel. They checked in and crashed for a while.<p>

When morning was well established, they joined the world at their own leisurely pace, still adjusting from a place where time didn't mean quite so much. They were awaiting contact from Bobby. In the meantime, Dean busied himself with a task he'd had the luxury to put off for the past while. He carefully and methodically checked, cleaned, and oiled all their weapons. It was a mental exercise as well; it prepared him for a return to a world he'd largely ignored for nearly six months.

Sam was at his computer, researching the case. Through Bobby, he had the skeletal info about it, and it was now up to him to flesh it out. He searched the typical sources, and used the back doors to other sites that were always useful. Ultimately he had a better picture of what they were looking for.

"Five people, so far. All suicides. Bobby is sure they relate to his book. They were all under doctor's care for some kind of illness that no one could pinpoint. There were no diagnoses, as far as I can see. Some were even under psychiatric care. They had the same symptoms; excruciating bouts of pain, but no physical evidence of injury or disease. And they all offed themselves in the end, when they couldn't get help. Weird."

Dean grunted. "So he thinks someone is using the book to voodoo people to death? Like the pins-in-a-doll thing?"

"Seems so. The question right now is who. I'm gonna see if I can find any common thread between these people. For starters, I need to isolate the area that these happened…give us a starting point."

* * *

><p>By afternoon they were well-rested and in a holding pattern until Bobby showed up. Dean had begun to pace. "Guess we could start looking around while we wait for him. Got any area in particular?"<p>

Sam had isolated a neighbourhood that seemed likely, according to the residences of the victims. It was pretty broad territory. Dean was pleased to see that there was a good stretch of the heart of the French quarter encompassed. Research could prove to be entertaining. They spent the afternoon wandering around the city, doing the tourist thing. It was a beautiful, degenerating old place. Wrought and cast iron decorated balconies, fences, and roof crests. Old, multi-storied buildings crowded the sidewalks, which thronged with people, both local and visiting. Here and there; stately, ancient oaks stood defiantly, hung with shrouds of Spanish moss. Dean felt a mysterious and decadent pulse to it all, and he loved it. Sam too found it interesting, but it's air of self indulgence and slow decay repulsed him a little. It felt old, in a desperate and death-rattle way that unnerved him; like an aging whore, beautiful and provocative when viewed from the safe side of the street, but god-forbid you cross over to her...

They finally returned to their lodging to grab some dinner and figure out their evening. Once fed, they discussed their possible choices. Sam was all for staying in and continuing his searches online, while waiting for further contact from Bobby. Dean had other ideas. His afternoon walkabout had awakened in him a need for some sort of action; something a little more pro-active than watching porn on an undersized motel TV. They agreed to pursue things in ways that took advantage of each of their particular skill-sets.

* * *

><p>Dean went about <em>research<em> in his usual full-throttle way. He checked out the hot spots in the area, triangulated by the reported deaths. There were a few of them; New Orleans was hardly a sedate little hamlet. He had made the rounds, playing up his tourist-in-search of-wild-times routine...finally settling on one spicy little joint in the French quarter. He spent a good few hours at the bar there. It had a great feel to it; a little exotic, a little dangerous, and a lot of potential on all fronts. It was all for the sake of the job, of course, but there were perks to the line of work. Sam could sit at his computer or library chair all he liked; this was a _way _better way to siphon off some info.

He'd been having a friendly rapport with the bartender; a mid forties Jamaican man with a shaved head and a ready and genuine grin. He called himself Benoit, and he effortlessly entertained Dean as the hunter sat and consumed his preferred poisons. Dean's questions about the area, the lore, and voodoo in general were met with willing and animated discussion. He learned a lot that evening, but nothing about the book, or it's current keeper, despite his veiled probes. He'd been eyeing the women present, and there were several that were showing promise. _All in the name of research of course_… One in particular was watching him hungrily. She'd sidled over when he had started his conversation with Benoit about the culture of voodoo magic, and the existence of books of spells and other curses.. She had skin that glowed cinnamon, eyes that were dark, fathomless. Her hair was dark too, slightly reddish, very textured. And she wore it in interesting long dread-like ringlets. She had an air of mystery, or menace. Either one was equally attractive to Dean. She looked like a supple feline that was only barely tame.

She addressed him in a honeyed tone, a slight, un-identifiable accent shaping her words. "Now why would you be wanting to know about such nonsense…?" she asked, tracing a line, a shape; on his hand lightly.

He grinned his most charming grin for her. "I dunno, just curious. You know...when in Rome... Hell, this is the place for that kind of thing, isn't it? I mean, I can find _normal_ anywhere, but this is New Orleans, the cradle of _freaky_."

She smiled. It reminded him of a snake... a beautiful, coppery snake. "You like the _freaky_, huh…? Well...I just might know a bit about that. What's your name, anyway?"

"Dean."

"Hmm. Well Dean….You think you want to learn something about the voodoo, yeah? You know; this isn't something you little sightseer farm boys should get into...you gonna be in over your sweet little head." She laughed softly, mocking him. She leaned forward, offering a tantalizing glimpse of what she could offer him, if she was so inclined. She brought her lips to his ear and whispered, "You know, I don't think you gonna be strong enough for this kind of magic...but I can teach you; just a little. If you dare."

He cocked an eyebrow, momentarily at a loss for words . He was normally the one coming on strong, this was an interesting role-reversal. Dean had a strange combination of feelings. He was intrigued, _very_ turned on, but he had the hairs on the back of his neck rising up in a revolt of caution. This chick was not playing coy. She was openly _hunting_. He felt like a rabbit, frozen and waiting breathlessly as the coyote's gaze passed back and forth across its place in the grass, debating the wisdom of running.

And there it was again…that goddamned phrase he'd heard too many times; _not strong enough_. It was the red flag to his snorting bull. "Listen...you want to go someplace and…talk?" he asked; his well-founded caution chased away by pride and his attraction to her.

She looked down demurely, raising her gaze slowly up his form and settling on his eyes. "Talk. Sure, we can do that. Give me a minute…I need to use the ladies room. Don't you run away now..."

He solemnly shook his head and watched her leave, smiling smugly to himself.

"Hey.." Benoit put down his glass and leaned toward Dean, tapping his shoulder. The bartender glanced around, almost fearfully. "Listen to me, ok? You seem like a fun guy. I like you; so lemme give you some advice here, ok? You _don't _wanna get with that. You hear what I'm saying? You really don't. That chick—man; you gonna find a world of hurt. You gonna regret it, I'm telling you. Just walk away from that."

Dean leaned forward, hardly trying to suppress his cocky smile. "Why's that, Benoit? C'mon, man, I'm a big boy-I can take care of myself. What's so scary about her?"

The bartender opened his mouth, but abruptly shut it as she returned. She stared at him pointedly. He dropped his gaze and backed away, catching Dean's eye one last time before returning to his drying of glasses. But his warning was lost on Dean. He _wanted_ this girl now; she filled his senses so completely that he thought of nothing else.


	2. Chapter 2

PART 2

Dean finally staggered home in the early morning. He fumbled clumsily with the key, cursing; eventually finding the lock and turning it. When that confounding little action was mastered, he pushed the door open and stumbled into the comforting blandness of the room. Sam, awakened now and annoyed, eyed his delinquent brother sourly.

"And the cat came back. Need some penicillin there, Dean? You look a little rough…"

Dean grunted an answer, too tired to argue. "Penicillin...good one, yeah, that's funny." He collapsed onto his bed with a groan. "_Rabies_ shot, maybe... "

Sam really didn't want the details, but his grudging concern won out. "You ok? You seem a bit whupped."

Dean sighed, throwing an arm over his eyes. The light was too damn bright, the sounds too loud, too close. And _way_ too much Reverend Sammy. "Just had a weird night. I mean, it was good—hell, great! But it got...weird."

Sam came over and peered at him shrewdly. "When are you going to figure it out Dean? Your skuzzy bar chicks will trip you head-first into your grave, and nab your wallet on the way down. I mean, how many times have you regretted it in the morning? ..Is it _ever _worth it?"

Dean raised himself up on an elbow and eyed his brother coldly. He didn't like being judged; least of all by little brother. "Better than dating your right hand, Father Ted. You should try this _chick_ thing a little more often. Give your calluses a break for a change."

Sam didn't take the bait, he just shook his head in disgust and left his brother to his usual morning remorse. He rose, washed up quickly, threw on a jacket and made his way outside, in search of some early coffee.

* * *

><p>Dean lay there in the blessed quiet for a little while. It <em>had<em> gotten weird...it was a freaking understatement. He had gone back with her, the voodoo girl, despite the barkeep's sage warning.-_god she was hot_. And she was a willing and energetic partner; he remembered her growling, demanding, scratching him—yelling in words he didn't understand. He still had the echo of strange, wild sounds; chanting, drums...although he really couldn't remember any music going in the room. And that was the last image in his memory. He woke up alone in a strange motel room, with a wicked headache, dizzy and disoriented, and profoundly spent. He closed his eyes and sought some peace, but his mind kept whirling. When he shut his eyes harder, his vision filled with imagery; shadowy figures, moving in wild circles, throbbing like a frenetic drum beat. After a little while, he gave up. He dragged himself out of bed and took advantage of the shower opportunity.

It helped a little. The hot water soothed away some of his feelings of being seriously screwed up.. He felt a wicked stinging, though, as the water flowed over the red welts on his back. He strained to look at them, but he had to wait until he was in front of a mirror. He finally turned it off when it became clear that the hot water was waning. He dried off, and noticed that he'd torn a thumbnail off—it was down to the quick. Remembering the sting, he looked back into the mirror.

* * *

><p>Sam returned with a take-out breakfast, placing it on a nightstand as he heard his brother cursing loudly in the bathroom. "What was that all about?" he asked, as Dean returned, towel-wrapped and in search of a clean change of clothing.<p>

"Bitch scratched the hell outa me! Here, look at this!" He turned around and Sam saw the red furrows carved into his brother's skin.

Sam snorted. -_serves you right_. "What happened to your hair? Did you sleep on some gum in the alley?"

Dean stared at him, dully. "What the hell are you talking about..?" he growled. He was tired of the sparring, he needed to eat something and take a nap.

"Dean, look in a mirror. You're missing half your rooster comb."

Dean looked. He hadn't noticed it before. "Damn!" Sam was right, a chunk of his hair was missing; snipped off close to the scalp. "What the f~ck!"

Sam snickered at his reaction. Dean ignored him and finished dressing with irritation. _Weird_ was becoming a meek and distant cousin to what this past night was turning out to be. "You talk to Bobby last night?" he asked tersely, diverting attention from his own foibles.

Sam nodded. "He's due this morning. Man, he's hot to get this book. How about you...any luck last night before you went feral?"

Dean shook his head. "Thought I was on to something with this girl—she was really into the whole voodoo thing. Told me she could teach me about it, but she was gone when I woke up. I dunno, maybe she did, I just...can't really remember." He sat down on the edge of the bed heavily again, rubbing his eyes.

"Dean, are you sure this is just a hangover?" Sam asked, his concern deepening. "I mean, you come home at dawn with your back scratched to hell, a chunk missing from your hair, a hole in your shirt…a nasty headache and no recollection. That isn't normal, Dean; even by your standards."

"My shirt…?" Dean leaned down and retrieved it. Sure enough, a rough, circular section, the size of a silver dollar, was missing from the middle of it.

"Aw, what the hell is _this _now?" This was too much. Dean was perplexed before, but now he was really pissed. It was one of the new ones, one Sam had given him after the werewolf incident, and now it was ruined. He was starting to regret not heeding Benoit's advice regarding this chick. While the night was probably worth it, he couldn't remember enough of the experience to be sure.

Sam handed him his coffee and an egg and sausage bagel, and they ate the breakfast in silence.

* * *

><p>Dean felt better with some decent food in him. Sam was a bit more forgiving too.<p>

"How about you, Sam? Did you find anything useful online?"

Sam shook his head. "Nothing other than what we already know; five dead by their own hand, all of them apparently going through episodes of inexplicable and terrible pain beforehand, none of them getting a satisfying diagnosis, all desperately looking for answers until they couldn't take it anymore. And that's it."

Dean grunted. "Nothing linking them together?"

"Nothing obvious. It's six degrees of separation, I guess."

Dean squinted at him, annoyed. "Six what-?"

"Nevermind. " Sam sighed. "Just a film reference. It's about how nearly everyone can be linked to anyone in six steps, six associations. Just...forget it."

Dean already had. He got up in search of aspirin, still feeling rough. Sure, he'd had a few drinks last night, but he wasn't impaired; he was on the job after all. But this hangover was strange; he was pretty sure she'd slipped him something.

* * *

><p>Bobby called in...he was in town and needing directions. Sam answered and relayed them. He anxiously asked if they'd learned anything, and Sam reluctantly told him they had nothing new to add to the puzzle. Bobby told him not to worry about it, assuring him they'd find more together, and after all, the brothers had only just got into New Orleans themselves. Sam appreciated that, but he still felt bad. When the elder hunter finally did arrive, he was so exhausted from the drive that he headed directly to his own room for a refresher nap.<p>

"Hey Dean, why don't we tour around a little? He'll be asleep for awhile. I hated telling him we have squat so far…maybe we can talk to some people at your bar, if they're open, We might pick up some leads, or find your voodoo princess."

Dean wanted nothing but to relax and lose his headache, but for Bobby's sake, he agreed.

* * *

><p>Sam attempted to claim the driver's seat, but one look at his ill-tempered brother convinced him of the merit in being a passenger for a while. Dean climbed behind the wheel sourly, and headed in the direction of his previous evening's activities. It was a starting point, even if his recollections were pretty sketchy. But after some time in the confines of the Impala, neither feeling in top form, their patience wore thin, and they used any excuse to pick at each other.<p>

Sam was convinced that Dean's night had been a self-serving waste of time. "Do you remember _anything_ about her? For shits' sake, Dean; you can't even remember her name?"

Dean gripped the wheel hard, trying to contain his anger. "NO! No—I can't, alright? I told you what she looks like, and I can't remember anything after I went with her to the motel! We rode it hard, and that's all I remember. Jesus, what other way do I have to say it, Sam?" Dean's headache was reaching critical level; if Sam didn't lay off, he was liable to pound him.

But Sam was frustrated, they still had nothing except Dean's spotty recollections of a nameless woman who may or may not know something about voodoo. He'd hoped they could have offered Bobby something, _anything_, useful... Sam hated feeling that they'd let him down. "What about that bartender? You said he tried to warn you about her; don't you think you should try to talk to him about it? "

Dean's mouth tightened into a thin line. "I already told you I called. He isn't around; either he's gone or he won't talk to me! And just because she claimed to know about this shit doesn't mean she does, or that she's connected to this case. It's New Orleans, for shits sake! Everybody knows something about it. Why are you busting my ass anyway, Sam? What brilliant contribution have _you_ made so far?"

Sam was stung by that. It was true, he had next to nothing, despite his research. "At least I'm trying to learn something, Dean! All you seem to want to do is entertain yourself, while I'm out working hard at-"

Dean suddenly stomped the brakes with both feet, skidding the car to a dust choked, screeching stop at the roadside. Sam bounced hard off the dash, barely keeping from smacking his nose against the sun-heated vinyl surface. He was furious.

"What the hell are you doing? That's really mature, Dean! Jesus, I nearly broke my... Dean?"

But Dean wasn't hearing him. He ground his teeth and moaned, clutching at his middle and doubling over. His eyes grew wide in shock, he turned to Sam and tried to speak, but sudden, searing pain robbed him of breath. He grabbed the door handle in a panic, throwing it wide and spilling out onto the gravel on his hands and knees.

Sam was instantly beside him, crouched over his rolling form. "What? What is it Dean-? Talk to me!"

He couldn't, he curled up in the dust, clawing at his stomach.

"Are you hurt? Dean, for god's sake, talk to me, tell me what's wrong!" Sam gripped his shoulders, trying to stop his writhing on the sharp stones. He was bewildered and near panic himself; he could see no cause for Dean's sudden, violent reaction. He didn't know what was happening to his brother but it was obviously something terrible. "Please, Dean! Talk to me!"

Dean turned to him, his eyes dark with fear. He tried in vain to get a grip on the agonizing paroxysm. "It's cutting me...!" he panted, "I can feel it, twisting... Aw Sam, it hurts! God-!" His voice failed him, and he squeezed his eyes shut. As Sam held him, he tensed harder against the agony. He gasped again, caught Sam's eye and shuddered. His eyes closed and by some mercy he passed out. The tortured rigidity of his body relaxed, leaving him limp in Sam's arms.

"Dean! Jesus- Dean! No— " Sam frantically checked for a pulse, pressing an ear to his chest. —_still breathing_— He fumbled in his pocket, finding his phone and dialing Bobby with shaking hands.

Bobby's groggy voice came on the line. "Yeah?"

"Bobby, something's wrong, you gotta get out here! It's Dean, get here quick!"

"Whoa whoa whoa! Take a breath, Sam! Where are you?"

"At the side of the road, Faubert Road, just past St. Charles. Bobby, he passed out, something's really hurting him, but I can't see anything! Nothing's there, nothing's visible, I don't know what to do!"

The elder hunter was instantly alert. "Hang on, I'm coming out!"

Sam dropped the phone and turned his focus back to the still figure before him. Dean's face was chalk-white; blanched. He was breathing rapidly and so damp with sweat from the exertion of the attack that Sam could feel it radiate through his own sleeve as he held him. He quickly checked him again for any evidence of an injury, Dean had reacted like he'd been shot; it was so sudden, so violent. But there were no wounds, there was nothing at all to be seen. -_Come on, Bobby-come on_-!

* * *

><p>Sam balled up his jacket and made a pillow of it to keep Dean's head out of the gravel He patted the sweat and dust from his face, and checked his pulse every few minutes, praying he'd come-to and tell him what the hell this was. He was in the dark, with no way to remedy it. He silently begged Bobby to floor it. Fifteen endless minutes had passed; Dean was still out, but his colour was returning, and his breathing had evened a little. Sam's own was still quickened with his panic. He spoke Dean's name, over and over, trying hard to stay calm and resisting the urge to roughly shake him awake. Whatever this was, the shock of it had sent Dean so deep into unconsciousness, that Sam didn't know if his voice was being heard at all.. But Dean finally began to respond as Bobby pulled up.<p>

The older man joined Sam. He knelt, anxiously checking Dean over. "What the hell happened?"

Sam stared at him, still wild-eyed. "I...I dunno! He was driving, we were just arguing, and he suddenly slammed the brakes, doubled over and fell out onto the gravel. He couldn't say anything, except that something was _cutting_ him! He was just holding his guts and squirming in pain, and then he passed out. Christ, I though he'd been shot through the window or something, but there's nothing anywhere!"

Bobby held Dean's face in his hands. "Dean... C'mon boy, can you hear me?"

Dean half-opened his eyes and nodded slightly.

"Are you still hurting?"

He shook his head.

Bobby and Sam exchanged relieved glances. "We're gonna sit you up, ok?"

He nodded again and they gently got him up and held him there for a few minutes, letting him rejoin the living at his own shaky pace. When he was able to speak in more than monosyllables, they asked him to describe what had happened.

"I don't know, it was just...sudden, sharp pain.—_man_—it was so bad; felt like I was speared through the middle or something… I couldn't catch my breath, it felt like a freaking sword slicing through me. And then...it was gone."

"So it's over, then? Nothing hurts now?" Bobby demanded, glancing tensely at Sam.

Dean shook his head. "No...it's ok now, I'm just shaky."

Both Sam and Bobby breathed out their relief. Bobby took Dean's arm over his shoulder. "Let's get you into the car, ok?"

"Uh huh.."

Sam and Bobby got him to his feet, holding him steady until he bore his own weight safely. They helped him into the back seat and turned the car around, heading back to the hotel. This was enough for one day, and it was a bad sign. The others, all of them, had started out the same way; wracked with mysterious and intense pain. And from what they'd learned, every one of those victims was tormented relentlessly by it until they couldn't take any more.

They'd barely started, but already the hunt had taken a dangerous turn...and Bobby knew _exactly_ what was causing it.


	3. Chapter 3

PART 3

Once safely back at the room, Sam steered his trembling brother to his bed. Bobby brought over whiskey, and he held a glass of it to Dean's lips, keeping it there until he had swallowed a good couple of ounces. It seemed to steady him.

Sam couldn't stand it anymore. "Ok, what the hell was that? You scared the shit out of me!"

"You and me both…" Dean said quietly.

Bobby was looking him over with an eagle eye. "Listen boy, you sure you're ok?"

Dean nodded, pulling himself up to a sitting position and rubbing a hand wearily over his face. "Yeah, I'm fine, nothing hurts now."

"Good. Now, we need to talk about what happened here. Sam said you met a girl last night; you think she's the one that gave you your haircut?"

"My hair? Uh, yeah... guess so. It got kinda strange by the end of the evening… I can't…can't really remember it all."

Bobby's questioning was intense. "Did she take anything else from you, like personal things? Anything..?"

Dean sighed. -_crap- _He knew where this was going."Yeah...got a hole in my tee-shirt. Not like a rip, more like a piece was cut out. And uh…maybe, maybe some nail…my thumbnail. Thought I'd torn it off; but when I looked at it, it was more like it was cut. Got a little scratched up too." He pulled up his shirt and showed the welts. He was beginning to see the accumulative significance of it all now, and he saw the worry deepen in the older man's eyes. Bobby understood it too.

"Dean, why didn't you tell me?" Sam demanded.

"Tell you _what_, Sam? That I broke a nail? Come on!"

Bobby interrupted. "Quiet, boys. Listen, this is not good. Dean—you've apparently donated enough of your person to allow this girl to make what she needed. What happened to you this morning wasn't no kidney stone attack. Looks like she's gone and made an effigy of you—classic voodoo doll stuff. If she has; she has the ability to hurt you now, and she can and will, until we stop her." He continued with a sigh. "This isn't the way I'd have gone about it, but at least you did us a favour. Now we know who has the book, so we're ahead of the game. But Dean—_shit_—she knows we know it too, and she's already used the book to get rid of five other people who pissed her off some way. We have got to find her, and that damned book."

Dean sat quietly, absorbing the information. He stared at his hands for a minute, reliving his painful and terrifying experience. It felt like he was being gutted, for christ's sake, he shivered at the memory. "Bobby, you're saying...this is gonna happen to me again?…Maybe keep happening?"

Bobby's tired eyes softened sympathetically. He rubbed his beard, wishing the truth could have been different. "Yeah, Dean. ...Until we find her and put a stop to it."

Dean closed his eyes and groaned. "...Aw man, this sucks!"

Sam couldn't believe that what he'd witnessed could have been done that way. "How does it work, then, just like they say? She makes a little mini-Dean, sticks in some pins, and just like that, he drops?" he asked, incredulous. It was too simplistic, too cliche'd.

"Well, not quite, but basically. Look, this is what I know. The book has the instructions and the words for spells of harm. You need personal bits of your target-victim to make an image of them, which starts out as just a simple stick figure made out of tied, dry sweet grass. The figure is linked to the target with the nail parings, hair, blood, or clothing—that sort of thing. The more you can add to the thing, the stronger you can affect the person. Sorry to say, but you donated plenty, Dean. This book has a place on the inside cover; it holds two old long, silver pins, sorta like hat-pins, I guess. From what I know of it, in order to hurt the target, you have to recite the specific words while one pin is pushed into a part of the doll, and the other one has to pierce your own flesh, which apparently completes the circle. Small comfort for you, Dean; at least she hurts a little too. So it's not like a whole lot of regular sewing pins sticking in all over the place and bingo—pain. It's just the one, and depending on where she wants you to hurt—she recites a specific spell. Luckily, the effect wears off after a while, and apparently it can't be done again until some time has passed, like it gets drained, has to recharge, sort of. That's all I know so far."

Dean snorted. "Just one pin, huh? What is it, freaking_ three feet long_?"

"Dean—she's got the gun, but you gave her all the bullets when you slept with her. She got her hands on a whole lot of you to add to that doll. That's why the effect is so damned powerful."

Sam bit back his _I-told-you-so._ After witnessing the first attack, he was very worried about the next. Needless to say, so was Dean.

"So I guess she's got it in for me because she heard me talking to the guy at the bar, and she figured out that I was after the book. -_great_. And there's no way to block it? Nothing I can do to weaken it, or ward it off...or something?"

Bobby met his eyes solemnly. " No…nothing. Except to get our hands on the doll, and that damned book."

Silence reigned for some time, as the stark reality of the situation hit home. It was Dean who broke it. "Look, I'm wiped; I've gotta crash for a while. This whole thing kinda sapped me."

"Sure, Dean. How about Sam and I go out and pick up something to eat? We can tour around a bit, see if anything else turns up that might be helpful."

Dean nodded wearily and pulled the blankets up over his shoulders. He just wanted to tune the world out. And maybe if he was asleep for it, he wouldn't feel the next one quite so hard—whenever she decided to play with her toys again. -_Bitch_. He hated to admit it, but Sam was right. He really should be a little more discerning when it came to picking his playmates.

* * *

><p>There wasn't much they could do in the hotel while Dean was asleep. They'd returned with fast food, but he wasn't interested, which worried both of them. He had turned his back to them and they respected his need to escape to the safety of unconsciousness. All that they could do was head out again, scope out the area that had been indicated, to prepare. Sam drove the Impala as Bobby pored over the information they'd gleaned so far.<p>

"Five people. Male, female—all ages, all finally killing themselves in desperation. None had any documented suicidal tendencies before. And now we know they're linked to this one girl. I dunno, Sam. I don't see any connection on paper. Maybe one could be a neighbour that she had some issue with, that sorta thing happens a fair bit. It's one angle to follow. Or a co-worker… We need to interview family members; describe her and see if they recognize her. If we could just get her name and where she lives, we might have a shot."

Sam was silent. He didn't want to hear words like "if" and "might" when it came to Dean's well-being. "Bobby...the other victims, they had the same episodes that Dean had?

"So it says here."

"How…how long did they suffer …before it got so bad that they chose suicide as their only way out?"

Bobby looked down. "On average...about a week."

-_a week…one week_. "Do you really think she'll do it again to him? She barely knows him, it's not like she has some old grudge. Maybe she just wants to scare him off?"

Bobby wished it was so. "Sam, once she guessed what he was after, she went to a lot of trouble to get the things from him. She coulda just drugged and killed him, if she wanted. Sounds to me like she enjoys this. She must have gotten quite the thrill, watching these people suffer and weaken at her will. It's a game now. I think she'll keep at it, unfortunately. That kind of power is intoxicating. We need to keep our eyes sharp, and make Dean as visible as he can manage, because I'd bet that she wants to witness the effects of her efforts. She won't be satisfied just knowing she's torturing him—she's gonna want to _see_ it. And then we'll have some chance at picking her out."

Sam's stomach tightened. He wanted to find her so badly, keep her from hurting him further—but he knew it would take time. Dean was strong, but this thing felled him like he'd been shot. And Sam knew it was going to happen again and again, and there was nothing he could do to stop the pain until he had his hands around that bitch's throat, and Bobby had the book safely in his own.

"That pain…I mean, Dean's pretty tough, he can take a lot more than anyone I know and still keep going... But I watched him just get dropped like a deer. It can't kill him...can it?"

"No, I don't think so, Sam. It's real; I mean, we saw the effect...but there's no actual injury with it. When the spell wears off, physically he's ok again. It will wear him down, though. I dunno...there seems to be some emotional effect with this... These people seemed to get really down, like it sapped their spirit real quick, and real hard. Of course, that kind of constant pain is hard on the system. Hell, who knows how we'd react under the same circumstances...but these were healthy, normal people; they should had more _fight."_

He realized the effect his musing had on Sam, and he added, "But those others, they were driven to end it because they had no way to stop. But we _do_, Sam. We know what this is, and we'll find what we need and end it, ok?"

Sam nodded miserably. "We have to go back to that bar—all of us. One of us should stay near Dean, just in case; and maybe the other sit somewhere at an opposite vantage point.. She doesn't know you, or me, so we can look around without her getting spooked. But if he goes down again, he'll need help out of there quick."

Bobby agreed. "Ok, we'll go around and talk to the bereaved first thing tomorrow, and then later head out to the bar strip. It's too late tonight now, I think your brother needs to get his head around this first. We should pick up some snacks and get back. Better stock up on his favourite drink, too."

Sam agreed. Whiskey, in a quantity that would numb all of their fears...


	4. Chapter 4

PART 4

They returned with a bucket of chicken and fries. Dean was quietly sleeping. Bobby leaned over him, worrying and assessing, as always. The scent of the food wafted his way, and Dean opened one eye. "Smells good."

Sam put a plate together for him and held it out as he sat up. "Sleep ok? No other...episodes?"

"Nope, all good. Guess she got bored of me and found some other idiot to poke." He dove into the chicken hungrily.

"Yeah, sure…maybe." Sam said, hoping it sounded like he believed it.

"Dean," Bobby asked, "Do you remember if you told her where you were staying?"

"Uh...don't think so, but I might have. I could have.. Sorry man, it's all kinda fuzzy. I'm pretty sure now that she slipped me something. I wasn't drinking much—I shouldn't have such trouble remembering, or the wicked hangover. But I don't usually go around broadcasting where I'm staying, for safety's sake, so I probably kept my mouth shut... Why?"

"Just making sure. Dean, this girl; I think she's the type who won't be satisfied unless she can see the results of her handiwork. I think she likes to watch the suffering. It means she's gonna want to stay near you, to witness, if she can," He paused, thinking. "How do you feel about being bait?"

"Well...depends on what the hell that means!"

"It means that you have two choices here…and unfortunately they're both gonna be hard on you. You can wait it out in this room; out of her sight, and suffer her attacks when she chooses to do them—we'll make sure you're well loaded up with your favourite poison if you think it'll help, and Sam and I will keep working this.. Or you can be out there, with us—exposed to her view as much as we can, so she'll be drawn out to work her thing on you while she has the opportunity to watch. The first choice keeps you in a safer, more comfortable place to deal with it when it happens, but I'm guessing it will prolong it in the long run. The second guarantees you're gonna hurt sooner, and publicly; but we'll have a better chance to find her while she's near you. We can end it sooner that way." He gave him time to absorb that.

Dean sighed heavily. The choices sucked. He wanted door number three-_there's always a door number three_. "Well...I'm pretty screwed either way, aren't I? So I guess I'll just -"

He halted abruptly. Sam looked up quickly and met his eyes. Dean let go of the beer in his hand. He slipped off the bed with a strangled cry. Sam and Bobby leapt to his aid immediately, hauling him back onto the mattress as he went into rigor, struggling anew against the unseen cruelty. He gripped Sam's shirt as he held him; so hard that he tore it. The pain coursed through him like a poison, radiating from his back, between his shoulders, and pushing deeper, as real as if a sword were being methodically driven through him. He cried out, and swore repeatedly. Bobby hovered, horrified, while Sam rocked gently, holding his stricken brother tightly against his chest. Dean clenched his jaw hard, and he ground out sounds that revealed the depth of his distress. But he didn't pass out this time, he spent twelve minutes of agony in perfect and miserable clarity.

Sam felt him relax when it finally left him. He laid him down and covered him with the blankets. Dean wiped his eyes and kept them shut while Bobby hurried to retrieve the whiskey. "_Christ-!" _he panted.

Bobby held a glass for him but he turned his head away. "Gimme a minute..." he said hoarsely, "I'm trying not to hurl."

He managed to suppress his nausea. He took some time to settle himself, and after assuring the two of them that he really _was_ ok, he addressed the question put to him earlier. The ordeal over for the moment, he was angry now-furious-

"Screw it! I'm coming out with you. I'm not gonna lay around here shitting myself in worry over when the next one's gonna hit me, and I'm the only one who knows what she looks like. I'll stay in the car while you go talk to the families. I don't think I can do that...I don't want to drop in somebody's livingroom and have them call 911 or something." He offered them a wan smile. "But when we go out to the bar; just keep feeding me shots, ok? Cuz I'm pretty sure she'll wanna play with me there." His expression returned to one of worry. "Don't let me be some embarrassing side-show, alright? Everybody staring at me while I'm rolling around; I can't even think of that!"

Bobby tugged off his hat and ran his fingers through his lank, thinning hair, sighing dejectedly. "Dean; hell, I am real sorry I dragged you into this.. You two were doing just fine where you were. I shoulda done this on my own."

Dean frowned at that. He got up and deliberately went about pouring a whiskey for his friend. He needed to show that he was strong enough to forge ahead, to relieve Bobby's guilt. "Look Bobby, Sam and I owe you huge. We'd be dead ten times over if it weren't for you, so don't say stuff like that. You did the right thing, calling us in. Hell, I was getting so bored out there, I was liable to find trouble one way or another; just ask Sam. At least this is helpful, getting this goddamned book out of circulation. ...And the truth is, I brought this down on my own head. I acted like a freaking amateur; she saw me coming a mile away. So; let's get some sleep, and tomorrow we'll catch this bitch and spank her. Alright?

Bobby was exhausted, he nodded and patted Dean's shoulder. He said his good-nights and headed to his own room. When he was gone, Sam turned to him. "You sure about this? Sure you feel up to it?"

Dean lay back down on the bed with a sigh. He debated the wisdom of honesty now. "No...not really. You want the truth? It feels like it's killing me, Sam... while it's happening. She may be using a stupid pin, but by the time it gets to me I'd swear she was goring me with a bayonette. I mean, I felt something like that before, when Gordon nailed me with the crossbow…but this; man, at least I saw the arrow coming, I could brace for it. I hate the _not knowing_, and I hate the idea that she, and a bunch of gawking barflies, will see me curled up in public like some candy-ass, crying baby." He sighed bitterly. "But it's gonna happen anyway, no matter what I do, and we need to stop this chick asap. And not just for me...who knows how many other people she's doing it to?"

"Alright. But we'll be right there when you need us; you know that, right? I'm going to sleep, then. You want anything?"

Dean leaned over, picked up the bottle of bourbon and sat it on his nightstand. "Nope, I'm good. G'night Sam." He turned off the light, murmuring "..Man, I am _so_ gonna rip the stuffing outa that doll!"

"That won't do it Dean, there's a whole bunch of incantations-"

"I'm not talking about the voodoo doll, Sam." he growled.

* * *

><p>Despite everyone's fears that they would be hopeless insomniacs, they all slept decently. Dean's tormentor apparently went to bed early and stayed there for the night, he wasn't troubled again by her attentions. He woke up early, feeling rested and relieved. He rummaged around for some left-over chicken to eat, giving Sam's bed a kick as he passed. "Wake up, Sasquatch; it's eight-thirty. If we're gonna talk to people we need to get on the road."<p>

Sam groaned and sat up, rubbing his eyes and squinting at his uncharacteristically cheerful brother. "Crap, a changeling! ...What have you done with my real brother?"

Dean just made a face and checked over Sam's notes. "We should divide these up according to area. Bobby can go one way and us the other."

"Mapquest them." Sam yawned. That occupied Dean for a while.

Sam hit the shower. When he was dressed and ready, he sat down with the list Dean handed him. "What are we gonna show up as? We need a reason to ask about this chick that makes sense."

Dean hadn't thought of that. They'd look pretty odd, showing up and asking if the deceased knew a girl of the description. The first question would be why, and they could hardly tell the truth. Sure would have been easier if he had her name…"I dunno, see what Bobby wants to do."

Speak of the devil, he knocked just then, and Sam got up to let him in. Bobby looked over to Dean, fearful that his younger friend had suffered a rough night. But he looked fine, even chipper. "You boys up to getting some breakfast? I need a coffee bad."

Dean nodded, handing Bobby his half of the addresses. He'd added a written description of the girl. "What are you gonna pose as?"

"How about Coroner's Office? We could say she's another possible victim of this illness, and that we need to contact her."

"I guess." Sam agreed. "So dress shirt and tie?"

"Yep."

Dean smiled. At least he got out of having to wear the monkey suit this time. "Gimme a minute, I'll make up some IDs for you." Keeping busy kept him from addressing his nervousness, which he thought he was doing an excellent job of hiding at the moment.

Bobby glanced at Sam and spoke quietly. "He have a good night? He seems pretty chipper."

Sam nodded. "He's nervous, and going overboard to keep it from showing."

Bobby nodded knowingly.

* * *

><p>They found the nearest diner, quaffed some oily black coffee and downed some breakfast specials. Dean was feeling slightly queasy with apprehension. He felt like he was wearing a flashing, neon bullseye, but he ate anyway. "I guess she's at work. Can't exactly pull out a freaky grass doll and shove a pin in it at the fast-food counter, or whatever, so hopefully I'm safe 'til lunch-break." he mused.<p>

"Mmm. So far so good, anyway." Sam replied.

Finished, they got up and headed in their respective directions.

"Keep in touch, boys." Bobby said.

* * *

><p>The first two victims had proved fruitless. One had left an empty apartment and no known family. The second had left behind an elderly mother who was in a care facility, in the last stages of dementia. The poor old thing had plenty to say, but none of it pertained to anything that had happened in the last fifty years. They stopped for another coffee and something sweet to boost their morale, and then headed in search of the next one. Time was passing with an uncomfortable speed...it was now well into the afternoon and both Dean and Sam were tensely aware that his reprieve could come to an end at any moment.<p>

Dean directed them to the third victim's house. "Allison Dupree. Age nineteen...College student. Popular, apparently, had a huge turnout at her memorial. That's all you have here." They pulled into the driveway. "Good luck."

Sam nodded. "Shouldn't take long." He walked up to the door and knocked, and Dean watched as he disappeared inside.

Sam introduced himself as they'd planned. Both parents were at home, which was fortunate. Sam felt for them, they still looked devastated. He played his role, describing the girl and why they were interested.

"No...I don't know of anyone by that description." her mother said.

She turned to her husband, who shook his head. "Are you saying that you people are taking this seriously now? A little late isn't it? When Ally was sick, all we got from the medical community was the run-around. They did every goddamned test, and found nothing. They made us take her to a psychiatrist, can you imagine that? Her headaches were so intense that her nose would bleed, but they told us it was psychological! She was paralyzed by pain every few hours and they still said it was all in her head!"

Adam Dupree's voice rose with his emotion. His wife put a cautioning hand on his shoulder and he took a breath and got a grip on himself. But he added softly, "We all had to watch her suffer. My wife, Allison's sister, and I; we watched as she cried and weakened, and begged for it to stop. We couldn't do a damned thing...and we were just as helpless when she gave up and took her own life with the valium they prescribed her. I don't know why you're here now. You have some bloody nerve."

He was justifiably bitter. Sam spoke frankly. "Sir...there are some of us who believe there's more to this. I'm trying to establish connections. I know it comes too late to save your daughter, but we may be able to isolate the source of this if there is something to chase, and stop it from recurring. I appreciate your time, and if you can think of anything else, here's my card, my cell's on it. I am sorry for your loss."

The man took the card and tossed it on the table angrily. Sam rose to leave, when a younger daughter entered through the front door. She eyed Sam without interest. "There's some guy throwing up in the driveway." she informed as she headed upstairs.

The couple exchanged looks of alarm and disgust as Sam hurried to the window. "My colleague, he...has the flu." he apologized, hastening out. Adam Dupree followed him.

He reached the car; the door was still open, and Dean was leaning back, pressed hard against the seat, sweating and pale. He kept an arm over his eyes.

"Dean?" Sam asked gently, crouching beside him.

"-headache. It's going away." he whispered.

Sam could see by the corded tendons in his neck that it wasn't. If anything, he was in the throes of it. "Hang on, Dean; we'll go somewhere quiet." He shut Dean's door, and turned to get to to the driver's side, when he met Adam's eyes.

The elder man looked at him with pity. "He has it, doesn't he? The sickness." he said softly.

Sam nodded, his own anguish raw on his features. "He's my brother."

Adam's lips tightened in a grim line. He looked away briefly, remembering what it was like, watching uselessly, hopelessly, while a loved one died in front of you. And he knew the man in the car was doomed. He turned back toward the house, saying; "I'll try to remember anything that might help."

* * *

><p>Sam drove briefly and found a quiet place to park. "Tell me how to help this." he begged anxiously.<p>

"You can't." Dean kicked his heel against the floor of the car a few times, trying to master the blinding pain behind his eyes. A small trickle of blood had started from his nose. Sam wiped it with a crumpled napkin. Finally, after several more tortured minutes, he relaxed.

Sam handed him some water, which he swallowed, shaking. "Cecille." he coughed.

"What?"

"Her name—it's Cecille. I remember."

"Good job, dude." Sam said quietly, relieved to hear something useful. He leaned over and released the lever on Dean's seat, reclining it fully. Seeing him shiver, he pulled off his own jacket and spread it over him. He wiped the bit of blood away from his nose again, not wanting to dwell on why it was there. He called Bobby.

"The girl's name is Cecille, he just remembered. You find out anything?"

Bobby said that no, he hadn't. He'd spoken to the husband of one of the victims, but he could not recall anyone that matched their girl. "How's Dean...everything still ok?"

Sam stepped out of the car for a moment, leaving Dean on the verge of drifting off. "No, he had another episode when I was inside, looks like his head was hurting this time. He was sick in the driveway. He's sort of drowsy now, worn out, I guess.. At least we have a name; that should speed things up."

Bobby swore. "Should we take him back to the hotel?"

"No, he wants to keep going. I'm parked safely, we'll stay here for a bit, 'til he feels better. You go ahead; lemme know if you get anything."

"I will. Talk to you later, Sam. And Sam..?"

"Yeah?"

"Tell him...aw hell, I don't know.. Just tell him we'll fix this."

Sam re-entered the car and sat for several minutes, watching him.

"Stop it."

"Stop what?"

"Watching over me like you heard a weird sound on the baby monitor. I'm fine." he growled, sitting up and readjusting the seat. He blew his nose and angrily wiped at his eyes. "Just drive—find the next one. Hovering over me isn't gonna help."

Sam drove. He was saddened to see Dean's positive mood, no matter how artificially buoyed this morning, evaporating in the face of this. His own mood plummeted along with his brother's.

The next family had nothing to add either. Sam hurried through his interview, as worried as Dean was that she'd strike again. Bobby had said there was always some sort of reprieve between attacks, but this was all still new to them.

The only thing that could have alleviated Dean's darkness was a good hard run in the Impala, but under the circumstances he didn't feel safe behind the wheel. He just wanted the afternoon to be over. He had no faith that anything useful would turn up and he just wanted to hit the bar and a bottle.

Bobby called in with better news. His last interview yielded the info that the victim used to work at a bar in the French quarter. She waitressed there, and had once mentioned an incident with a girl by that name. Her brother didn't recall what the problem was, only that his late sister had quit shortly afterward. It was at the Blackbird, the place of Dean's encounter. Dean wasn't encouraged. He stared out the window, muttering- "Yeah, so? We already know she hangs out there. That's nothing new."

Sam sighed patiently. "I know, Dean, but it strengthens her connection there, instead of her just being there randomly that night. Even if your bartender doesn't show, somebody's gonna know of her. We can get a last name, maybe an address."

Dean grunted without enthusiasm.

"Look...let's grab a coffee somewhere, Dean. You need to eat something, you must be hollow after-"

"No."

"Yes."

* * *

><p>Sam stopped at a donut place, returning with two cups and a handful of plain biscuits. He was relieved when Dean ate a couple of them after all. At least it was something. "Dean, why don't we go back to the hotel for a bit? It's a bit early to go out to the strip, you could grab a hot bath or something...relax a bit."<p>

He expected an argument, but to his surprise, Dean nodded. The rest of the drive passed in silence. Sam kept glancing at him but Dean had his eyes half-closed for the remainder, saying nothing, staring at nothing. Sam tried to engage him in some discussion, but Dean ignored him, either not hearing, or too weary to respond. It was strange; after this headache attack, it was as if he'd become suddenly very depressed—not that it wasn't understandable. But it was unusual for Dean to become dispirited so quickly. Angry, yes, but this-it just wasn't in character. Sam called Bobby and relayed their plans.

"Good idea, Sam. I'm gonna go to one more place. I'll meet you back there when I'm done. We'll talk then—you and me."

Dean trudged in, threw his coat down angrily and poured himself a healthy triple-finger shot. He downed it and poured another, which disappeared equally fast. In a moment, he felt the warmth start to radiate from his belly, and he began to relax a little.

Sam stayed quiet. He didn't want to provoke Dean; he was clearly angry, and likely pretty reactive. But this was better than the depression he'd witnessed earlier. This, at least, showed some fight. Dean disappeared into the bathroom; Sam heard the tub begin to fill. He figured they would head out to the Blackbird in a couple of hours. He was glad Dean was taking his suggestion, it would do him good. In the meantime, he called Bobby again.

"Couldn't see the last one, they weren't available." Bobby said. "Guess I'll come back to the hotel too. How about you come by in about a half hour, we can go over some of this. What's your brother doing?"

"Taking a hot bath. He kinda scared me earlier; his mood tail-spinned after the last attack, it's not like him. But he's just mad now, which is better, but just watch out."

"I hear you. See you in a bit."

* * *

><p>Sam ordered some pizza. Under the circumstances he didn't trust anything but bottled beer at the Blackbird, so eating there was out of the question. For all they knew, Dean could have been slipped something by the staff that night. He knocked on the bathroom door. "Dean?"<p>

"Yeah?"

"I ordered pizza. I'm going to see if Bobby's in yet, I'll be back in a minute... You ok?"

"Yeah, I think I can manage all by myself." he snarked.

Sam was relieved. He'd rescued his ailing brother from a cold bathtub on more than one occasion; he wasn't too keen to have to do it again. He left, and met Bobby, who was just returning, in the hall.

Bobby retrieved a couple of beers from the honour bar. "Ok, Sam. What have you got?

"Nothing, really. Just a lot of bitter family members who couldn't get any support from anyone. Nobody knew of her, either by name or description."

"How's his mood?"

"Harsh. I know the whole being-a-target thing is wearing on him. He told me that was the worst part of it, the waiting and not knowing when he'll get hit with it next, not being able to brace for it.. But crabby Dean I can take...I'm fairly used to that. It was the sudden despondency after the last one that worries me. I don't know, Bobby—I think that may be something she's doing."

Bobby weighed that for a moment. "Pretty understandable to be down though, under the circumstances. I sure as hell would be depressed."

"I know...but this feels different. All those people killed themselves...that's pretty extreme. None of them had a history of depression, or any earlier suicide attempts. You'd think, out of five people, at least a couple would have been emotionally strong enough to keep fighting."

Bobby knew he was right. Their reactions to their situation went beyond the scope of natural human response. He pulled at his moustache, frowning. "Yeah, Sam...I think we were right earlier, I think this is another way she's affecting him. I mean, being who he is, and having faith that we will solve this; he should be wanting to battle through this regardless of the physical toll. We both know how he hides pain and pushes on, we've seen it dozens of times. But if she's affecting his emotional state somehow, it throws out any predictability."

"I know." Sam sighed. It terrified him.

"A spell of despair…" Bobby mused. "We can't leave him alone at all, then, and I dunno how you feel, but I'd be a lot more comfortable if he didn't have a gun on him, or anything else dangerous. How the hell are we gonna pull _that_ off?"

"We can't. He won't sleep unless there's a knife under his pillow and a gun within reach. There's no bloody way he'd put up with us taking those from him.. It's just up to us to keep sharp and make sure he never has the opportunity to try anything."

"Well.." Bobby said with conviction, "Then that's what we'll do."


	5. Chapter 5

PART 5

Dean called Sam's cell, irritated. "Your pizza's here. It's getting cold."

Sam flashed Bobby a _tread softly_ look and they rejoined Dean.

"How're you making out, Dean?" Bobby tried.

Dean looked at him crossly. He opened his mouth, but shut it again, realizing he was being unfairly difficult towards the two people who both cared enough, and had the means, to help him. He sighed instead, forcing himself to uncoil and be civil.

"Been better." he smiled thinly. "Looking forward to going out to the bar and killing my liver."

Sam and Bobby worked at the pizza, both covertly watching Dean to make sure he ate as well. Dean finally pried off a slice. "If you two don't quit your sneaky little glances, I'm gonna have to poke one of you in the eye." he said without looking up. They smiled sheepishly.

"That'd be me." Sam assured Bobby. Even Dean had to laugh a little at that.

* * *

><p>They cleaned up a little and made their way to the Blackbird. They were early enough, there was still plenty of space at the bar, and Sam sat beside Dean, while Bobby took a seat with the opposite vantage point. Sam ordered beers, requesting cap-on for safety's sake. Dean glanced over and was pleased to see that Benoit was there.<p>

"Hey, Benoit.." he called over.

The bartender looked up, offering nothing more than a cold, distant. look.

"Hey, c'mon man, it's Dean...from the other night."

Benoit's expression remained indifferent; he refused to acknowledge knowing him, instead motioning to another bar staff-member to serve them. He turned his back to them and served another patron.

"What the hell-? We got along great the other night!" Dean griped, feeling hurt by the snub.

Sam had watched the exchange shrewdly. "He's afraid to recognize you." he said quietly. "Somebody has his nuts in a vice, Dean, and I can guess who."

"Huh. It means she's here, then." He looked around, as casually as he could. A woman sat at a booth across the room; she had glasses and straight, dirty-blonde hair. He couldn't see her face as she was looking down at her table, reading.

"Sam—" he said, indicating her with a flick of his eyes. "Who comes to a bar to _read?"_

Sam caught Bobby's eye, tilting his head in her direction. Bobby nodded. Both he and Sam moved casually from the bar, edging toward her.

She snapped her book closed and looked up, and with a secret little smile, she rose and hastened to the exit with Sam mere steps behind her. Dean caught up with Bobby and they too, exited into the evening damp of the street.

But they saw nothing. They heard rapid footfalls fading into the distance. Dean called Sam's name, and in a moment, heard his answer. They stood, listening, until Sam returned, cursing.

"Well, she obviously knows her way around here." he said. "I was chasing shadows; she disappeared like a damn ghost."

"Keep trying to find her; Bobby and I will work our way around the joint, see if anyone can give us the rest of her name. Doesn't look like we'll get squat from my buddy Ben, there."

"Ok." Sam sprinted off, renewing his search.

* * *

><p>Dean and Bobby re-entered the bar, scanning the crowd. Benoit was nowhere to be seen. They split up and asked around; waitresses, bar staff, likely-looking patrons—but they were met with a wall of hostile silence. Finally, frustrated and angry, they left. It incensed Dean that they'd almost had her...she was right there, mocking them, but they'd managed to squander the opportunity. He furiously said as much to Bobby.<p>

Bobby snorted. "Get real, Dean. That girl wanted to be seen; she's toying with us. She had every confidence that she'd shake us, she's probably right around some corner laughing as we speak." He headed back to his truck. In a rage, Dean planted a vicious kick at a trash can, and followed him to the parking lot.

They stalked in silence towards the cars. Bobby scanned back and forth as he walked, sure that she must be near. His theory, unfortunately, was valid. He whipped around at Dean's cry.

"Bobby!" Dean croaked. He stumbled against his friend, clutching his chest; struck again by intense pain. He drew a ragged breath as the sensation pierced deeper and he staggered and dropped to the pavement as Bobby tried his best to slow his fall.

"Aw, no! " Dean panted, "Bitch! You psycho bitch-!" His teeth clenched in a taut grimace, he moaned and shut his eyes, straining to keep from entertaining her by crying out.

Bobby now knew how Sam had felt; the frantic helplessness. He had no way to stop the torturous assault, but dammit, he _should_ have! He was Bobby Singer, for christ sakes, he was _supposed_ to have all the answers! But all he could do now was pray that this would pass, just as the other attacks had. He held him still –_ten minutes—fifteen- _until he felt him relax and the strain left him. He laid him back gently onto the asphalt.

He squeezed his shoulder in awkward sympathy, staying silent while Dean covered his eyes, and gave in to his anguish in its aftermath. It was only for a moment or two; he wiped his eyes, embarrassed, and shrugged Bobby's hand away. When he felt ready, he let Bobby help him to his feet, and back to the car.

Dean was trembling. He breathed deeply for a few moments to calm himself, to normalize. It was getting harder to do that with each successive bout.

"Yeah...that hurt a little." he acknowledged, catching Bobby's worried expression.

Bobby's jaw muscles tightened in impotent fury. He wanted to offer some words of comfort, but he was too damned upset himself. He fervently hoped Sam was able to tail her. "We'll wait for Sam and go back to the hotel. We're just hitting a wall here, nobody's gonna talk to us. This girl has a lot of people scared, that's for damn sure!" he growled.

Sam, returned, having found no sign of her. He saw the haunted look on Dean's face. Bobby nodded in response to Sam's unspoken question.

He swore. "Now what?"

Bobby reinterated the plan, and Sam was in agreement. Dean needed to recover, and they were getting nowhere here tonight. Sam slid behind the wheel, picking up his phone. It flashed a message and he dialed to listen. "That was the first victim's father. He said he remembered that the girl's boyfriend used to date a Cecille. Cecille Daumier. He left the guy's address and number!"

"Well now we've got something!" Bobby said, finally encouraged. "Dean, this is something, but I know you just went through the wringer... What do you want to do; check it out now, or in the morning?"

Dean sat listlessly, leaning back and keeping his eyes closed. "Whatever you think." he said flatly.

Sam exchanged a look of concern with Bobby. "Daylight will be better...let's head back."

* * *

><p>Sam searched her name online, coming up with multiple hits in the area. There was no Cecille Daumier, but apparently Daumier was a fairly common name and there were at least a dozen addresses that were local, and many more in a wider area. But they knew she had worked at the Blackbird, so it was likely that she wasn't too far.<p>

Bobby picked at the remaining pizza, watching as Dean slept. "Any luck with the Gary Dallaire number yet?"

"Still no answer. I'll try again in a bit." Sam shut his computer and leaned back against the headboard. "_God_ I hope we're close to finishing this." he frowned, glancing down at the still form of his brother beside him. Bobby amen'ed that.

Dean stirred and stretched, opening his tired eyes. He hauled himself up to sit. "Talk to that guy yet?"

"No answer."

"Figures… That bottle around?"

Bobby poured him a drink, and then two more as soon as the glass emptied. He poured a good few for himself. Sam shook his head at the offer.

Bobby advised, "Dean...if I were in your position I'd be getting drooling drunk tonight. Tomorrow we'll find this Dallaire guy, get her location and stop this witch. I swear; we are gonna be done with this." he said, raising his glass.

Dean saluted him with his own. "First decent plan I've heard so far. Just give me a full bottle and the TV remote, and maybe a bucket for later. Sammy; sorry in advance for the stupid things I'll say and, well...the hurling."

"Atta boy." Bobby said, chuckling.

* * *

><p>Sam rolled his eyes and ditto'd his brother for what was probably his twentieth <em>I love you, man, you're the best<em>. At least he was a happy drunk; no Pandora's box of angst bursting open. Sam knew it would take more than mere alcohol to lift that welded, leaden lid.

Dean belched, apologized, and laughed. "Sorry Sammy; they don't fart or burp in _college_, do they? What do you classy, educated guys do? Just eventually pop?" He had a mental picture of guys in oxford shirts suddenly puffing out like popcorn kernels in an explosion of binders and horn-rimmed glasses. He thought that was pretty damned funny.

Sam just shook his head, laughing at him. "Behave yourself, Dean. -I can take videos with my camera, you know... You're giving me plenty of blackmail material."

"Oh yeah? Videos, eh? Man, that's so cool! Hey Sam, did you ever-"

Sam rolled his eyes at the predictable direction his brother's mind wandered. "No, Dean, I never."

That brought another fit of laughter. But Dean became sombre for a moment. "Sam...she's been behaving herself so far. You don't think...she'll play dirty, do you? What if she does? Jeezus, Sammy. what if I really piss her off and she sticks her pin…I mean…uh-" He looked up at him with his eyes fearful. "I mean, that would suck way out-loud..."

Sam could see the wisdom in worrying about that, but he didn't say so. "Dean, I'm sure you impressed her enough in the sack that she'd think that was a terrible waste."

Dean thought about that, and brightened. "Yeah...you gotta point there." he grinned.

The bucket, actually a trash can; turned out to be a really good idea. The volume of bourbon alone would have warranted it, but then again; Dean did have an exceptional capacity for strong drink. But when Cecille got bored again, there was no way under any circumstances that he could have kept his illness at bay.

She struck at two a.m. Dean had gotten spectacularly loaded, and had laughed himself to sleep by one-thirty. Sam listened for a while to the easy breathing of the contented drunk in the bed beside him, smiling to himself. He was tired, and he was on the verge of sleep himself when he heard that breathing change.

Dean gasped and struggled up at the first sensation. A sharp prick, in the centre of his spine. It worsened, and even in his disoriented state, he felt the point drive deeper, cutting through muscle and cartilage, grinding against bone, as real as if Cecille herself now pushed the blade through. He choked out a sound and tried to make his way to the bathroom, but the room spun away from him, and he tangled in the bedcovers and fell to the floor. Sam leapt out of bed and reached him as he screamed and curled up.

He was still too affected by the bourbon; there was no way that he could verbalize clearly what he was going through, but from his body language, Sam was certain it was his back this time. His hands tightened into fists, one hand pressed to his spine as far as he could reach, the other held rigidly to his chest. Sam held him, murmuring to him that it would be over soon, and holding back his own tears as he prayed that the whiskey would at least dull it a little.

It didn't seem to, though. But emotionally, the gates were wide open. When the pain hit hard, Dean couldn't hold back his cries, and Sam was made agonizingly aware of just how hard this was on him. He supported him as Dean struggled to his knees and retched until he collapsed in exhausted misery. When it was over, Sam gave sips of water to his sobbing brother. He dried his face and helped him back to bed, and tucked him in firmly.

"..can't do this any more." Dean whispered.

Sam was caught off guard. Anything he could say at that point was powerless...all he could do was offer lame platitudes. "Don't give up… Please, Dean... Bobby and me; we'll fix this, I promise!"

Dean didn't answer, he'd surrendered to exhaustion.


	6. Chapter 6

NEXT

Sam awoke first.

He'd barely slept, staying up late with Dean, and then worrying for hours afterward. He was terribly anxious to meet this Gary person. He felt desperately certain he was the key to finally getting their hands on the book, and the girl who was using it so cruelly. But it was only six thirty; neither Dean nor Bobby were required to be conscious yet. He looked with sadness at his sleeping brother. At least he wouldn't have such a bad hangover after his nausea. -_sleep in, Cecille- _he thought bitterly, -_give him a break for a while_-

He figured it was safe enough to go down to the hotel coffee-shop. Dean was probably going to keep snoring for at least another hour. He sat down with a paper, waiting on his breakfast order. To his surprise, Bobby joined him.

"You're up early." Sam said.

Bobby put in his order and the waitress left to prepare them. "And you look like you never slept at all." .

Sam rubbed his gritty eyes. "Not much. She got him again, Bobby; around two this morning. He was pretty plastered, he may not even remember it. But I tell you, _I'll_ never forget. His walls were down this time, thanks to the booze. I got a pretty clear idea of what this is doing to him."

Bobby frowned. "Damn. Poor bastard. I sure as hell hope this Dallaire guy pans out. I'm running out of ideas here."

Sam toyed with his cup, turning it slowly in circles. "Bobby...after it was over, he was pretty worn out, and upset. I mean, I know he was still pretty loaded, but he said...he said that he _couldn't do this anymore_... Bobby, it's scaring the shit out of me. Whatever she's doing, it's tearing him down so fast!"

Bobby looked up at him. He sighed with tension, wishing he could reassure this anxious young man now. But the truth of it was that those quiet words of defeat from the lion that was Dean Winchester screamed volumes. He rubbed his grizzled chin. "Yeah...this is working on him damned hard. I don't know what she managed to get from the others to empower the dolls, but she got more than enough from Dean. Especially his blood...that's a powerful link. But it doesn't make any difference now, Sam. We'll work as hard as we can to put an end to this, and we'll both watch him like hawks. Even if his state of mind tanks, he won't have a chance to do anything drastic, not with us right there. And we still have the advantage of knowing what we're dealing with here, and what to expect. Nobody else had that. But I tell you, Sam; I _swear; _I dragged Dean into this mess, and as sure as there's a god and a devil, I will haul him back out safe!"

Sam nodded wearily. He knew that Bobby meant what he said. They could always count on him. He just didn't know if it was enough now.

* * *

><p>They quickly ate their breakfast in silence. Sam finished first. "I left him sleeping soundly, but I don't want to stay away much longer. I have his gun and knife with me, and if he finds out I took them away, I'm a dead man myself." He got up and ordered some food to go for Dean. "I'll keep calling the boyfriend. But whether I get through or not, let's head out there first thing. I'll call you when Dean's ready to go."<p>

"Ok, I'll be in my room. And Sam...we'll get her."

Sam nodded. "Yeah…I know. Just hope _he_ keeps believing that."

* * *

><p>Sam carefully replaced Dean's weapons. He then arranged the take-out breakfast on the night table. The scent of coffee brought Dean to the living world, albeit reluctantly. Sam handed him the cup, along with a handful of aspirin. "How's your memory?" he asked.<p>

"Ugh. I remember bourbon…a lotta bourbon. And, -aw crap, did I hug you?"

"A few times. Just wait 'til you see the blackmail shots."

Dean groaned and lay back down. Sam plied him with the breakfast order but he didn't feel quite up to that yet. He settled for the coffee. "Did you get through to that boyfriend guy?"

Sam shook his head, punching the number yet again. As before, there was no answer. "We'll just head out there and knock on his door, as soon as you're ready to go."

Dean groaned. "Alright, just give me fifteen minutes." He reluctantly hauled his achy self into the bathroom and went about the humanizing process.

* * *

><p>The drive wasn't long. Sam tried several times to engage Dean in conversation but was consistently rebuffed. He finally gave up and they drove in silence. Gary Dallaire's subdivision came into view, and Sam negotiated the maze and they pulled into the driveway matching the address. He got out and said a silent prayer that this foray would be the one that led them to the book. He was at the door, knocking several times before Dean joined him.<p>

"He's not home. Let's just go." Dean said, slouching against the bricks.

"Since when do you give up so easily?" Sam crouched, opened the letter slot and called through it. "Gary? Coroner's office, can we talk to you?"

There was still no response, but a slight odour, like stale kitchen garbage, wafted through.

Bobby drove in behind the Impala and parked. He joined them, asking, "Any luck?"

"No, he's not answering. Bobby, stick your nose in there-" Sam held the flap of the slot open again.

Bobby drew back in disgust, alarm crossing his features. "Boys, I think we'd better get in there!" He motioned to Dean, who pulled out his little kit and promptly picked the lock open.

The house hadn't been cleaned for a while. Several days of dust sat on the furniture, and there was mold forming on the few dishes still half-submerged in cold, scummy water. They exchanged glances, and Dean drew his gun, keeping it at the ready.

"Hello? Gary-? We just want to talk to you." Sam called. The only sound was the lazy buzzing of flies.

They passed from room to room with no luck. "I'm gonna check the garage." Dean said, leaving the other two to their own searches. He found the access at the end of the hall. He opened the door, switched on the light, and immediately recoiled in revulsion. "Aw _Christ_! Sam, Bobby! I found him!"

Gary Dallaire was there all right. He was suspended, ashen-faced, from a yellow nylon cord tied to the garage door track. He'd been there for some time; several days at least, if the smell and flies had anything to tell.

"No way..." Sam muttered in dismay. Bobby stared silently for a dismal moment and then headed back into the house.

Their one hope, their only solid lead, had hung himself.

* * *

><p>When they had moved past shock, they went about the grim task of cutting him down and laying his body out on the garage floor.<p>

"Poor bastard." Sam murmured.

Dean was silent. He bent down and retrieved the envelope protruding from the corpse's shirt pocket. He opened it and scanned the letter. He handed it to Sam, who read it with a sinking heart.

"So she was doing it to him too, and he couldn't deal with it. Said he missed his girlfriend too; that was Alison. Looks like he'd given up on getting any help." Sam informed Bobby, who'd rejoined them.

Bobby's mouth was a grim line. He cast an anxious, knowing look at Sam, who matched it with his own.

"Well." Dean said, dully, "Guess that's it then. Not gonna find her through _him." _He turned away and headed back out to the car.

Sam ran a trembling hand through his hair, feeling on the verge of tears or violence. "F~ck!"

Bobby was busy going through the house, searching for anything that could possibly be useful. An experienced detective, he searched through every drawer until he found one with a few photo albums and loose snapshots. He didn't know how long Gary and Cecille were together, but if it were for any significant amount of time, there surely would be some pictures with her, or the two of them.

"I'm gonna check on Dean." Sam said. Bobby nodded and flipped through the books.

* * *

><p>Dean sat, staring blankly. He would never say it, but he had given up. The discovery of Gary, dead by his own hand, affected him deeply. Not only was their one link severed, but here was proof again that it was hopeless. He began to think that his own death from this thing was inevitable. Sam would have been terrified to learn that it didn't frighten Dean anymore...he was beginning to welcome the idea.<p>

"You ok?" Sam asked.

Dean looked up at him, deciding to hide his loss of faith in everything for the moment. "Yeah, Sam...just tired. Disappointed. Same as you…" He even smiled slightly.

"Dean, I know that this is a lousy turn, but we'll just find another angle."

"Sure, Sam…I know."

"You better." Sam gave his shoulder a rough and reassuring pat and returned to help Bobby.

* * *

><p>Sam could see that he'd collected some items. He took the armload of material from him. "Anything good here?"<p>

"Maybe. Photos, letters...We can go through it at the hotel. Sam, we better get the hell out of here. We need to call somebody about the boyfriend out there, and I don't want to be caught in the middle, as I'm sure you don't. How's he taking this?"

Sam sighed. "I don't know, Bobby...he's doing the stiff upper lip thing. If I push, he'll just get mad. I guess he had as much hope riding on this as we did."

"Mmm. Well, let's go. I wanna go through this stuff."

They had already returned the letter to Gary's pocket. They wiped away any prints, closed the door carefully behind them and set out in the direction home. Bobby reported, anonymously, the discovery of Gary Dallaire's remains. Sam thought again of Alison Dupree's family. They were going to have to attend another funeral. He fervently hoped it would be the last one for a while.

* * *

><p>Back at the hotel, Sam put Dean to the task of going through the photos with Bobby. He declined at first, claiming weariness, but Sam insisted. He knew he needed something to steer his mind from the blackness that ruled his current mood. In the meantime, Sam went about weeding out the Daumiers that were of no use. He called as many as he could, asking for a Cecille, and he stroked off the ones he felt were honestly denying any knowledge of her. There were one or two that he felt had hesitated, or sounded strange, and he highlighted those addresses.<p>

Bobby and Dean had separated out several photos that showed her. The elder hunter's hunch had paid off; Dean had confirmed that Cecille was pictured in a number of shots. Most were random, nondescript settings or bar interiors-some of the Blackbird. But there were three that Bobby set aside.

"Have a look—tell me what you think." he said, handing them to Sam.

He studied them carefully. "Looks like the same place in the background…all three. Those are old live-oaks. They used to plant them in avenues in front of those big antebellum houses." Sam mused.

Dean looked closely. "Yeah, there's some huge and crappy old house back there, in that one-and a corner of it in that one there." he said, pointing to the photos. Bobby took their word for it, his eyesight wasn't nearly as reliable. The third photo showed a similar scene; the house wasn't in it but an unkempt and expansive lawn was in the background and the oaks were just visible in the corner. Three pictures; all of the same place. It was enough of a thread to be significant.

At that point, Dean begged off, he needed a nap after the nights exertions, whether he remembered them or not.

"We'll come back with you." Sam said.

Dean glared at him with annoyance. "What the hell for? I said I wanted to nap, not have a freaking pyjama party!"

"Don't be so testy! There's something wrong with the plug in my room," Bobby lied. "We're gonna need the computer, and the battery's dying-"

Dean made a sour face at his old friend. "Look, I don't need a babysitter!" he growled. "I'm just gonna lie down, and unless I brain myself on the blankets somehow, I'm pretty sure it's safe without you two hovering over me!" He didn't wait for them to answer, he shut the door roughly behind him.

"Should we go after him?" Bobby asked with a grimace.

"Not unless you have a deathwish. When he's grouchy like this, he's at least got some fight. I'm not too worried right now, and he does need to rest. C'mon, let's keep going through this stuff and then head over there. I'll check on him in a little while if this takes too long."

They continued their discussion over the material they'd gathered. In the end, the only thing that seemed significant were those three tantalizing shots.

"Well, it's not in the city; too much space around it, even for the garden district. It has to be in the outskirts." Bobby thought.

"Yeah, a lot of lawn there. You know...if I look at these Daumier addresses on Google-Earth, assuming they're in an area that has good satellite coverage, I might be able to see which ones look like they have that kind of space and trees."

Bobby looked at him like he'd just spoken to him in Swedish. "You can see that kind of detail from space?"

"Oh yeah. Some places so closely that you can make out the model of car in the driveway. Welcome to the era of _Big Brother_, Bobby. Nobody has secrets anymore." _Except hunters_…he thought.

"Well now that's something I gotta see!"

Sam obliged and began searching the addresses. One after another; clear views of the locations popped up on the screen. Bobby was truly amazed. But one by one, they discounted them. Too urban, too small, too new….until finally—one seemed to fit the parameters.

"Wait! Look there-" Bobby said. "Can you zoom in on that one at all?"

Sam tried, and sure enough, a blurry view of a large roof and double row of gnarled and broken trees showed on the screen.

"That's it, that's the place in the pictures!" Bobby nearly shouted.

Sam nodded, excited himself. At last, after the agony and disappointment of the past days, they had it. Cecille Daumier's place of residence.


	7. Chapter 7

NEXT

The pain, and the dread of it, were grinding Dean down. He was dead tired, in body and spirit, but sleep eluded him. It was impossible to appreciate each hour that passed without incident, because it meant her next attack was that much closer. It was so real, so agonizingly _real_. He remembered some greek myth that they'd been forced to read in one highchool class... Prometheus, forced to endure having his liver torn out by birds every day, and recovering anew each night so it could start all over again. Well he'd felt her murder him five times now, and enough was enough. He was ready to concede defeat. He couldn't live like this...he just couldn't. Thoughts ran through his head; ideas that were frightening, but oddly comforting. He felt criminal even allowing his mind to wander that path.

The thing he contemplated now was an unthinkable betrayal...but somehow that didn't seem as important as it should have. Sam would heal. Eventually he'd move on...forgive even. And he would thrive, without the weight of his brother's tainted presence holding him back. Dean was pretty sure of that; somehow it felt right.

But there was the car. The Impala would need proper care. Sam was hardly mechanically gifted, and an old classic like her needed constant upkeep. He got up and found a notepad and pen.

* * *

><p>Sam couldn't wait to tell Dean that they finally had their solid lead. He knew he needed to sleep, but this would boost his mood, and that was invaluable at the moment. He left Bobby's and made his way back to their own room, opening the door softly. Dean heard the sound and quickly shoved his notes under the bed, just in time to feign sleep as Sam entered.<p>

Sam caught the brief motion out of the corner of his eye, but he ignored it. He shook Dean gently to rouse him. "Dean, listen!"

"Trying to sleep, here, Sam."

"I know, sorry, but listento me! We found her address! Cecille; we know where she is!"

Dean found Sam's enthusiasm irritating. "Uh huh. That's great. So we'll just go up, knock on her door and say Hi, Bitch! Can we have the book and the doll, please and thanks? She's bound to be expecting that we'd find it sooner or later. She's probably not even staying there right now."

Sam was crestfallen, and bewildered by Dean's pessimism. "C'mon, man, this is huge! We'll be able to end this now. We'll stake the place out; she'll show at some point, you know she will. She won't be able to hurt you, or anyone, anymore."

Dean was unconvinced, but he masked his negativity for Sam's sake. "Sorry, Sam." he sighed. "I'm just tired. That is good news, really. Maybe we'll get this bitch finally."

"I know we will, Dean. So...are you getting up? It's going on five, we're starving."

"Nah. I think…maybe I'll stay here for a bit. Sam, it's been hours, half a day at least. I don't know when she's going to pay attention to me again, but she's way overdue. I'm not so sure I want to be out right now."

Sam scrutinized him. Dean looked drawn, and pale. He could see that the pain, and the fear, was taking its toll. But he also knew they couldn't leave him alone.

"I know it would be good for you to stay here, but we're going to need you, Dean. Bobby's quick-thinking, but I need you watching my back. We won't know if she'll be alone, or with her own backup. C'mon, Dean, this is it! Help us end this!"

"Ok, ok, fine." he sighed. "Just let me get through with the can, I need to wake up."

* * *

><p>He was in the bathroom for less than five minutes when Sam was startled by a crash, and the sound of shattering glass.<p>

"Dean! " He didn't wait for a reply, he shouldered the door hard, forcing it open. Dean sat on the tiles, holding his head and rocking. His hand was bloodied from striking the mirror on the way down. Bits of silvered glass lay everywhere. Sam knelt beside him, ignoring the shards, and enveloped him, holding him tightly until finally, he stopped his moaning and relaxed.

Dean was drenched with sweat, his chest rising in short, panicked breaths. "Aw crap," he whispered hoarsely, "...I'm gonna be sick!"

Sam stayed by him while he vomited until he was empty and shaking. Bobby had come in just as it ended, and the two of them got him up and guided him to the bed. Sam grabbed towels, soaked them in hot water, and cleaned his face and hands while Bobby dealt with the cuts. Dean stayed silent, clamping his eyes tight and working at slowing his breathing.

"Stop, I'm ok." he shuddered, finally.

Bobby snorted.—_hardly ok_. "Look, Dean...all I wanna do right now is get you loaded again and tuck you in for the rest of the time while we go after her, but the reality is, you have your window for the next few hours now, and we're gonna need you. Do you think you're up to that? Cuz I'll be damned if I'm gonna sit back and let this go on any longer!"

Dean gathered himself and took a deep breath. "Yeah, ok...I'm with you." -_This is it_—he thought grimly, -_Do-or-Die time. _Either one would be fine.

They gave him the time he needed to shake it off. Bobby returned to his room to gather necessities.

"I'll take the stuff down to the car." Dean said. Sam looked up and nodded. He stood for a moment, by the window, making sure Dean was safely outside. When he could see him by the car, he knelt and withdrew the notebook he'd spied under the bed. Normally he wouldn't pry like this, Dean was entitled to his privacy; but with Cecille affecting him, the circumstances were a little different right now.

Sam scanned the writing quickly. It was a list of mechanics across the country that Dean trusted with his car. Names and numbers of scrap-yards, in case parts were necessary. The products he used to keep it in condition...instructions on how to do the necessary driveway maintenance operations. It was very, very _complete_. His heart froze. There was only one reason Dean would feel it necessary to compile such a list. His mind and emotions in turmoil, he tore out the page and stormed out.

* * *

><p>Dean was checking the oil, his head under the hood of the Impala. Sam grabbed his shoulder roughly, spinning him around.<p>

"What the f~ck?" Dean growled.

"What the hell is this, Dean?" he demanded, shaking the paper in front of him.

Dean's eyes became hooded. "Nothing. Where'd you get that?"

"Why'd you write this, Dean? Going somewhere?"

"Sam—"

He grabbed Dean's shirt-front, shaking him. "After everything we've been through, you think you can do this to me? Jesus Christ, you selfish jerk! How can you even think of this?"

Hot, furious tears slid down Sam's face. He let go of the shirt and punched his palm hard against Dean's chest.

There was no point in denying it now. Dean's own emotions reared up, and he shoved him back with both hands. "Leave me alone! " he howled. "You don't know what this is like! You don't! I spend half my day getting speared by this bitch; I never know when it's coming, I never know where! All I know is it hurts so bad every time I want to put a gun in my mouth and blow my god-damned brains out! You can't tell me when this'll be over, or even if it will be! So what would _you_ do, huh? Jesus, Sam! You can't even imagine what this feels like; so don't you stand there judging me!"

His voice broke, and he backed against the car, sliding down against it's comforting bulk, all the rage and fear and hurt of the past days boiling to the surface. He sat on the pavement with his back against the tire, covering his head with his arms. "She's killing me anyway, Sam." he choked, "I don't wanna spend any more time curled up in a crying, puking ball… I'm sorry, Sam, I'm sorry! I just...I can't take it anymore!"

Sam knelt down beside him, pulling Dean's arms away from his haggard face. "Dean, yes you can! Bobby and me, we're going to fix this—soon, tonight! And I know I don't know how it feels; —god, I wish I could carry this for you. But please, think about it! For god's sake, you know this isn't you talking. You are the toughest, grittiest, stubbornest sonofabitch I know! She's making you feel this way, understand? She has her claws dug into your head right now, just like she did with the others, six of them, Dean. She knows this won't kill you, she's making you do it yourself!"

Dean covered his face with his hands, his shoulders shaking with his misery.

"Can't you see it, Dean? It's just more of her voodoo crap! She's messed with your head, she's forcing this despair onto your mind."

Dean huddled against the warmth of the car, and wept in silence.

Sam refused to give up until he got through to him. "You know you're strong enough to beat this, Dean. If you won't fight for yourself, than do it for me… Please, you owe me that."

Dean took several moments, got a grip on himself and rubbed the tears from his face. He raised his eyes to Sam's; they were dark, filled with a gut-wrenching mix of embarrassment, and misery and shame.

"Yeah…ok. " he sighed. "I'm sorry, Sammy...wasn't thinking enough about you."

Sam put his hand on his brother's head, gripping his hair gently. "_Promise_ me, Dean; promise you won't try to leave me like that...no matter what!"

Dean nodded.

"Say it!"

"Ok, ok, —I promise."

Sam got up and pulled him up to stand with him. "C'mon, I need a drink, and I know you need a few."

* * *

><p>Bobby had watched the exchange from his window. He was torn, seeing the altercation. He wanted to intervene, to fix it. But he knew what it was about; it was clear enough by all the emotion down there. They had to work this out themselves; it was too private, too painful, for his interference. He sighed with relief when they got up and headed in.<p>

Those were two fine boys...he'd have been proud to call them his own. He found himself hating John Winchester for bringing them to this. They could have had a normal life, could have lived happy...but instead they would battle their father's legacy until it put them in a grave.

One way or another, he vowed, they were going to finish this horror tonight.


	8. Chapter 8

NEXT

Bobby held his tongue when they returned. He collected his printed directions, folding them and putting them in his coat. Sam poured three whiskeys.

"This is to success; we are gonna get this witch tonight." Bobby toasted. They raised and drained their glasses. "Ok, boys, first things first; if I don't eat I'm gonna faint. The downstairs café ok with you?"

They agreed and headed down, ordering a basic supper. It arrived quickly, and they dove in. Some of them did; Dean fiddled with the less-than appetizing meal, pushing things around on the plate in hopes that his ever-watchful brother would be satisfied. He wasn't.

"Dude, don't make me force feed you in public." Sam threatened.

Dean frowned, but he relented and finished it. He knew that tonight was most likely going to be taxing; he had to do what he could to stay able, if for their sake alone.

Once they were finished the meal, they put their minds to the task at hand. "Ok.." Bobby started. "I don't see this as complicated, but it doesn't mean it's not dangerous. I figure we'll drive by, and if there's any sign of life we'll wait around til dusk and park near, and go the rest of the way on foot. We'll scope the situation out; if there are more bodies than just hers, we separate and take them out where we see them. After that, we grab her."

Sam wasn't satisfied. "Well, if we even make it that far, what do we do with her? I mean, she caused six deaths that we know of, and is hurting god knows how many others. We can't just get the book and stuff from her and let her go! She can't get away with that!"

"We can't do anything, Sam. " Dean said. "It's hardly something you could take to the cops; they'd call for the guys in white coats. Hell, don't get me wrong; I'd love some pay-back here, but the real point is to get the book. Without it she's nothing anyway."

Bobby added, "That and the doll, so we can destroy it in the right way. I don't think we should leave it hanging around; you'd always be at risk somehow. Same goes for any others we find. I don't exactly know how to undo the spell yet, but from what I know, it'll be in that book."

They finished up and paid. Sam looked over to where Dean slouched. "Everybody ready...?"

Dean was weary. He just wanted the night to be over. "Yeah," he said with grim resignation, "Let's just get this damned thing done."

* * *

><p>Bobby relayed the directions to Dean, who decided to drive while he had the chance. His spirit felt soothed the minute he got behind the wheel. They left the crowded city behind, and drove amongst moss shrouded trees. The damp was rising with the setting of the sun. It smelled old here...decayed. It reminded Dean of ugly things, and he had to force his mind away from where it led him. The miles, and the city, disappeared behind them. They followed their directions until a large and poorly kept old house loomed into view. They stopped, and checked the rusting mailbox. <em>Daumier<em>.

"Man, this place is creepy." Dean said, stating the obvious. "How old are those trees? They look like they're all scabby arms, and...hair."

"They're probably well over a hundred. Check out that house, not exactly 'Tara'."

Indeed, it was hardly the mansion from Gone With The Wind. The building had seen better times. It was probably worthy of some sort of heritage designation, but without that protection, and the grants it offered, it was slowly falling to ruin. Huge places like these required constant and expensive work to keep the ravages of time and nature at bay. This was a massive, dying white elephant. If it was Cecille's, she must have inherited it. At the rear of the property; black, still water reflected the waning sun a little. It was the same foul brackish stuff that Dean had slid into while in Florida, and he shivered at the memory of it. With all the low hanging, mossy limbs, the light here was already failing ahead of the dusk. The rooms of the house that were lit stood out in high contrast to the gloom everywhere else...hopefully it would make their task easier.

Someone was moving around in that house. They could see a figure, passing from corner to corner; occasionally room to room. Whether or not it was Cecille remained to be seen, but it seemed to be female, or at least a slight and slender figure.

Sam was all for rushing the place, but both Bobby and Dean, the more experienced of the trio; cautioned him.

"We're not sure of anything yet. Gotta make sure just who we're about to scare the crap out of, Sam." Dean said, keeping his voice low.

* * *

><p>They had left the car, and were moving toward the house under the protective but unsettling coverage of the ancient oaks. They each made their gains in sequence; one would move forward several yards, wait, then another would pass him by several more. Soon they were each crouched against the crumbling foundation. They communicated via hand signals now. Many of the windows in the old house were open, allowing the cooling night breezes in to diffuse the stagnant heat of day.<p>

They saw no one but the lone figure. They were close enough now to hear, and Dean heard a voice. Female, humming—breaking out into words every now and then. It was Cecille. That velvet, honey tone, he recognized it instantly, and he signaled to the other two that this was indeed their quarry.

What they didn't see was the massive dog that lolled at her feet. It was logical; a young woman, alone and living in such an isolated location would want such protection. The dog was huge, some kind of mastiff; with a tiger-like brindle coat. It looked like a hyena on steroids. It was far from beautiful, but it made it up in loyalty and a jealously protective nature. Cecille had no worries while the dog was near.

All three men were poised to gain entrance when the dog suddenly lifted its head and growled. Cecille never took that for granted. She was instantly wary.

Dean heard it too. He motioned frantically to the others to be still, to move back. He mouthed the word DOG, and added a biting hand signal for good measure. They halted, crouched and waiting, as he stood listening. After a few moments, she spoke to the dog. He heard it quiet and settle again.

He swore to himself. With some sort of bone-crushing canine at her beck and call, how the hell were they going to sneak in? But Dean's focus on that particular problem was instantly eclipsed.

* * *

><p>"Be still!" a voice hissed in his ear. He felt the authoritative coldness of a blade at his throat. He had little choice but to move away from the window and back into the shadows, as the blade, and his assailant's firm grip on his collar were decidedly compelling. Once safely away from the ears and nose of the dog, and the eyes of its owner, the man released his grip on Dean's neck. Dean instantly spun around, ready to defend himself.<p>

"Relax, you stupid bugger! It's me, Benoit!"

"What? Benoit? What the hell are you doing here?"

"Her, up there—she called me. She always calls me when she wants something, damned lazy sow. But nevermind; why are you crawling around the house here?"

Dean sat on the grass for a moment. He didn't know if he should say anything to him; Benoit had shown himself to be both friendly, and less-so, in the past few days. But then again, he was out here, already caught by the man. Might as well level with him. "Man...I shoulda listened to you, Benoit, that night. She figured out that I wanted something she had, and-"

"And now she's putting the hurt on you." Benoit shook his head in sympathy. "Yeah, I know about that. Seen it a few times. You trying to get her to stop, is that it?"

Dean nodded. He didn't know if Benoit knew about the book, so he chose not to elaborate, in case their attempt would be further jeopardized. "Why'd you ignore me the other night? And what's she got on you?"

"Didn't wanna show her I gave a shit. She was there, watching. And what she got on me? Same as you, man; only she can use me, so she don't hurt me if I do what I'm told." He fairly spat the last part. He was obviously not happy with the arrangement. He nodded his head in the direction of the house. "Well, you gonna get chewed to rat-shit if you try to get in there. That dog don't let nobody near her, man."

Dean figured that. He hadn't worked his way around that toothy hurdle yet. "Benoit, do you know how she does this? Have you seen it?"

"You mean them stick dolls. Yeah, I know. Got a nice little Benoit up there, wearing my hair and some of my shirt. Guess she got herself a little Dean, too, huh? She got all kinds of them; some people who aren't here no more, some who are. She showed me mine...stuck something in it when I laughed at her. Don't laugh no more."

-_no kidding_- Dean thought.

Sam and Bobby were covertly approaching from two sides with guns drawn, fearing that Dean was in trouble. Sam was the first to reach them, and he was about to pounce when Dean saw him and held up his hand. "No, Sam, it's ok! It's Benoit, from the Blackbird-"

Bobby emerged as well, warily joining the little huddle.

Benoit nodded curtly to the other two. "I see you got some backup at least."

"You trust him, Dean?" Sam asked. eyeing the inconsistent ally with suspicion.

Dean nodded. "So far. Ben...you know why we're here. I've got to put a stop to this before it kills me or any one else. And what about you? How long do you think you can last before she starts on you? You know as well as I do that she likes doing it. How long before you piss her off and she decides to play with you some more?"

Ben was silent for a moment. "You know, I got family; a coupla kids. I had to do what she wanted."

"Sure man. But we know how to put an end to this! And if you help us, it'll be over for you too."

He mulled that over. "She already gonna be pissed that I'm taking so long. What you want from me?"

"Just keep that damn dog occupied. It knows you, so you can lead it out of the way while we get in...maybe lock it in the can or something, that's all. We'll do the rest."

Benoit shook his head. "Not gonna work. She'll see that from a mile away; me taking that dog away. I got a better idea. Get up into them trees-"

"What?"

Ben didn't elaborate. Instead he grabbed the easiest target of the three, Bobby. He held him by the hair and kept his knife pressed firmly against his neck. Bobby struggled, shocked—but Ben pressed the knife harder until a small bead of blood rolled over the blade. "CECILLE!" he yelled, "Let the dog out! You got company!"

* * *

><p>The front door spilled light onto the lawn and the mastiff bolted out towards the voice. Dean and Sam had no time to do anything other than scramble up into the stout branches of one of the oaks as the dog flew at them with a snarling show of snapping teeth. Dean glared his hatred at Benoit for his betrayal, but all he could do was stay off the ground, or lose a limb to the canine guardian. Sam swore like a long-shoreman, a few branches above Dean, as Ben dragged Bobby into the house.<p>

"Now what?" Sam hissed.

"I don't know!" Dean growled in fury. "I can't think with Cujo down there snapping at my nuts!" He swore bitterly himself. He was ready to tear his hair out. He couldn't believe Benoit's betrayal, and it was even harder to believe that they were stuck up in a tree, ducking spiders and trying to keep from slipping on the wet mossy bark and becoming fodder for the drooling land-shark circling them now. And now Bobby was captive, or worse; and all they could do was wait until Cecille came out to finish them off.

They were royally screwed.


	9. Chapter 9

NEXT

Benoit kept a firm grip on his captive, pulling him as he struggled and kicked up to the threshold. He gripped him tighter, and stilled him with a threatening gesture. As Bobby eyed him warily, Ben put his mouth close to his ear. "Trust me.." he whispered. Bobby had a mere second to meet his eye. Ben nodded slightly, reassuring him as Cecille descended the steps to view the intruder.

"Caught him sneaking around out there. Two more of them in the trees." Benoit said.

Cecille looked her guest over smiled icily. "I know you...you were at the Blackbird. How's my darling Dean? Hasn't blown that beautiful head off yet?"

Bobby struggled against the hold but Ben's big hand was a steel vice on his neck. Benoit growled, "What you want me to do with him, then? Tie him up and get them other two?"

She nodded dismissively. "Yeah, take him up to the blue room, and tie him tight." She headed out to the oaks where the dog was still viciously circling the tree of Winchesters.

* * *

><p>Standing under the tree, Cecille laughed, and called the dog back. It sat at her feet, teeth still bared, but quiet for the moment. "Hello, lover." she sang up to the leaves. "Best you stay up there for now. Brutus here; he doesn't like to share me with anyone."<p>

Dean kicked a shower of moss and bark bits at her. "Bitch! Are you having fun? Hope you enjoyed it, cuz it's over now!"

She laughed again, thoroughly enjoying herself. "Oh honey...fun's only starting." She turned away and yelled up to the house. "Benoit! Hurry up and get your lazy ass down here, I want these two upstairs—now!"

Ben had pulled Bobby into the room she referred to as the 'blue' one. It was huge; with ceilings that must have been well over ten feet. It was a faded beauty; walls of robin's egg blue, stenciled with ornate floral scrolls in rose and cream and gold, now yellowed and peeling. Heavy plaster medallions, missing sections now- decorated the cracking ceiling.

Cecille must have used it as a sort of bachelor apartment, she had both a sofabed and a dining table set up. The table was strewn with bundles of grass, string, scissors, bits of cloth, and other things. It looked like a craft studio, as if she were making things; innocent decorative items like natural wreaths and bouquets. -_or dolls_. Bobby scanned the room quickly as he was led through it. The grass effigies were lying on every surface; some complete-some apparently waiting for their new identity. Apparently she had quite a few vendettas. He saw no book of any kind.

"Sorry about the cut, there..." Benoit said, his voice low. "Only way to get you all in here past that mutt without her suspecting." He beckoned Bobby to quickly sit on one of the dining chairs, and he tied his hands loosely behind, making it appear decently secure. "That ok? You think you can get loose from that?"

"Think so." Bobby whispered, still a little bewildered by the sudden turn.

"Ok. I'm gonna get them other two, same deal." He headed toward the door, but looked back with a fearful glance. "You buggers better not screw this up, you hear? You got one shot at this, and if you don't get her, I'm f~cked along with you!"

Bobby nodded.

* * *

><p>Cecille drew something from her jacket pocket, holding it up for them to see. "Look, darling...isn't it sweet? My own little Dean. Almost like having the real thing."<p>

Dean looked down at the hideous little figure. Such a stupid little thing...he could hardly believe it was the source of all his pain. The tuft of hair she'd stolen from him was tied to the grass head, and on its middle a bundle made from the cloth of his shirt, containing his thumb nail and marked with streaks of dried blood. It wasn't what he'd expected. Somehow he'd pictured it as more of a real likeness of himself. This looked more like some sort of well-used cat toy. "You're sick, you know that?" he growled.

Sam stayed silent. He desperately tried to think of some way to get to her without being torn limb from limb by Brutus. As if reading his mind, she said something to the dog, and it instantly returned to its aggressive circling of the tree.

Benoit jogged up and reached her side. "He's up there now, tied."

"Good. Take that one first—" she ordered, pointing at Dean. "And watch out; he's a slippery one." She called off the dog and ordered Dean to get down. He had no choice but to obey; there was nothing useful to be gained by staying in the tree, especially since she was going to regain the power to use the doll against him at any moment. He'd probably end up falling out of it and breaking his neck. He dropped to the ground, and the dog rushed him with teeth bared, but she stopped him just short. Ben grabbed Dean by the neck, again keeping his knife firmly at his throat, and dragged him into the house.

Sam remained in the tree, convinced to do so by the dog. Cecille looked up at him. "So...who are you then? His friend? Family?"

"He's my brother."

"Brother, huh. Too bad. He was done along time ago, you know...you couldn't save him. Shoulda stayed out of it, then you'd just have the funeral to go through. Now you got a _real _problem."

"Where'd you get the book, Cecille?"

She was taken aback. So they all knew of it, not just Dean. No one around her understood of the source of her strength, they just thought she was some sort of skilled voodoo practitioner. But she shrugged, _no harm in telling now._ "I found it in my grandmama's things. This was her house; she died and left it to me. How do you know about that?"

"It's my business to know. We came here for it, we've been tracking it for a while. We got lucky when Dean bedded you, it led us right to you."

She frowned. It was a blow to her ego that Dean had wanted something other than her alone that night. "Well, I don't think our poor Dean's gonna think it's so _lucky_. You gonna get to see first hand how it's all done. Then you gonna get to _feel_ it." She walked away from him, leaving the dog behind.

* * *

><p>"Jesus, quit squirming, man! I told you I was gonna get you in the house without that dog tearing you up." Benoit released Dean, cautioning him, "Now shut up and listen. Got your friend tied up there, loose enough to get free, ok? Gonna do the same for you two. After that, I'm done; it's all up to you. She got the Ben doll in her pocket; she can drop me, screaming, if I even look at her wrong, understand?" he hissed.<p>

Dean nodded. He _did_ understand. "Thanks, man."

Ben took him up to the same room, and sat him beside Bobby, tying him the same way. "Don't you let me down!" he whispered tersely, leaving to retrieve the third captive.

Dean leaned toward Bobby. "You ok?"

"Yeah. I don't see the book anywhere, but I'm guessing it'll come out when she comes up here. How do you want to play this?"

"Not sure yet...we'll see how it goes first. If she shows the book, I'm just gonna tackle her, but if the dog's in here it'll be complicated. No matter what happens; you get your hands on that book and don't let go, ok?"

"I hear you."

* * *

><p>Benoit returned with Sam and Cecille. The dog trotted in behind her. He pushed Sam roughly into another chair and feigned a tight binding of his hands while she watched. He covertly tapped his captive's wrist three times, hoping he understood. Then he pinched Sam's arm for good measure. Sam growled a protest to the sting, satisfying Cecille that he was tightly secured.<p>

"Well, so nice to have some visitors." she sneered. "Dean honey, aren't you gonna introduce me to these good people?"

He sneered in response. "Well sure. Guys; this is Cecille. She's a bar skank that followed me home. And Cecille; these are the people who are gonna watch me kick your scrawny ass."

She slapped his face, hard. "Watch your mouth, honey. You gotta show your woman respect! Didn't your mama teach you properly?"

She cleared a space on the table and selected two of the unfinished figures. She hummed to herself and laid them down alongside the Dean doll. "You boys shoulda stayed home today. You know what I can do; you see poor Dean, there; crying and moaning...un-manned everyday by the hurt I put on him. You'd think you'd learn something from that."

-_Un-manned? _Dean scowled. _That was a low blow_. "Look, you skuzzy fish-whore; you and me may have issues, but these two are nothing to you. Let them go; then you can try to 'un-man' me all you want. We'll see who comes out on top!"

She spun and back-handed him hard again, splitting his lip and drawing blood. He growled a curse and spat it at her.

Sam caught his eye and shook his head, willing him to stop antagonizing her. But Dean knew that the longer he distracted her, the longer the others would have to work their hands free.

"What's the matter, Cecille? I rode you good and hard ...just like you were begging for, right? So what are you getting all bent outa shape for? Me, on the other hand...well, I should've known you get your money's worth from a free carnival ride. Actually, I can barely remember it. I thought you'd slipped me something at first, but then I realized it was just 'cuz it wasn't worth remembering. Hell, I even forgot your name, just ask Sam. Yeah, we laughed about that for days!"

She grabbed a handful of his hair in fury, yanking his head back and digging her nails into his throat. "You shut your mouth, you filthy liar! Nobody forgets Cecille! I could make you remember for the rest of your miserable life, but you not gonna live long enough!"

Benoit was standing by, awaiting her instruction. He didn't particularly want to be around when it went down. He didn't want to see it fail. "Cecille, what you call me for anyway? I got to get home."

She turned on him viciously. "If I call you here, you just wait—ok? _I'm_ your priority, not your snotty brats!"

He looked down, appearing cowed. But a little smile played around his mouth. He knew something about the evening...something she didn't. He looked up and met Dean's eye.

Benoit had been her virtual slave for months. For the first time in ages, he felt a little hope.


	10. Chapter 10

NEXT

Cecille turned her attention away from her rude and taunting ex-lover. She leaned toward Sam. "Huh. You don't look like your brother. You the postman's bastard?" She giggled at that as she twisted a lock of his hair and snipped it. She placed it alongside one of the grass dolls. Returning, she stared at Dean pointedly, then surprised Sam by kissing him hard, biting his lip in the process. He flinched but said nothing. She smiled to herself and dabbed at the blood with the corner of his shirt. Then she snipped off the fabric.

She turned to Bobby next. "Jesus, it's like I'm killing Santa Claus!" she mocked. She knocked his cap off, and tousled his thin hair. "Not much to spare is there?" she laughed, cutting a small bit of it. He turned his head in disgust, expecting her to press her mouth on his. She snorted. "Like I'm gonna kiss some yellow, old man. How about I just take some of that hillbilly shirt you wearing?" She cut the corner off his collar, and Bobby growled something in return.

She laid her treasures again onto the table. But her attention was diverted by her first project. "Dean...you bad, bad boy." she breathed. She sat on his lap, facing him coyly. "Miss me?" She planted a rough kiss on his face. It was more of a brand than anything remotely tender. "It's a waste, really. You got a big mouth, but I can't deny it; you were a damned good lay." She got up and stood back, addressing the trio. "Watch now, boys. This is why nobody crosses Cecille."

Cecille was well aware of the timing-it was one of the quirks of this particular magic that she had learned early. She knew there was a limit to the effect, and a down-time between assaults. She also knew that for Dean, that period of safety was at an end now. "So…you came hunting the book, then." she said to Sam. "Well, you want to learn how it works? Here you go, lesson one."

She closed her eyes and began a recital. The trio watched her tensely. Dean scanned her desperately from head to toe, searching for any detail that could be of use. He saw it then-the bandage on the back of her left hand. A heavy silver shank protruded from it, capped by a black onyx bead carved into a macabre skull. It was obvious that she had been keeping the second pin in that place, never removing it from her irritated flesh, so that her power was always at the ready. He saw the red line of infection snaking away, following the path of a vein She was so obsessed with controlling the people around her that she was sacrificing her own health to stay in power. He realized that the fever in her eyes was more than merely malice; she was poisoning her own system.

She had memorized the particularly useful passages, those that would drop her adversaries in their tracks, crying out in agony. Holding the Dean doll in hand, she sat on his lap again and breathed the words into his ear. He shut his eyes and gritted his teeth as she recited it. She stared at his face with breathless hunger as she slowly forced the second silver point through its middle.

There was nothing he could do. He felt it instantly, and howled in pain. He arched against his seat, knocking her to the floor with the violence of his reaction. He fell over along with the chair, breaking into a sweat and clamping his jaw hard to keep from making any more sound for her entertainment. She sat where she landed on the floor beside him, laughing with the pure joy of a child at a surprise birthday party as she watched him writhe against his ropes. She leaned toward him with the doll in her hand, brushing her mouth against his ear. "Oh Dean...tell me all about how you're on top now!" She twisted the pin roughly through the grass figure until it ran through the back of it.

He screamed. When he could catch his breath, he panted, "Bitch! You vicious little-"

"DON'T! Cecille, please! Stop it!" Sam begged. Her eyes burning with intense pleasure, she turned toward him, smiling blankly as if she hadn't understood. "Sorry, honey...already done."

Sam turned with wild eyes to Bobby. Bobby's hands were not yet free, and tears of frustration filmed his eyes as he shook his head. _Not yet_-

Cecille stood up and stepped over Dean where he lay, and reached out to stroke Sam's face. "Mmm." she sighed appreciately. "Ain't you a fine thing though. Too bad, little brother. We coulda had a real good time, you and me."

He twisted his head away from her hand and she laughed.

"All business are you? Well, you wanna see what's it all about?" She took the lock of hair and shirt bit, affixing them to one of the grass dolls. But this time, she got up and strode to a desk in the corner. She pulled out a key that hung around her neck and unlocked a drawer, retrieving a cracked, leather-bound item.

_The book._ Bobby tensed, ready-

She may have memorized some of the passages, but the one that empowered the dolls was too complex. She needed to read it. Both Bobby and Sam watched, holding their breath as she began to make her way clumsily through the text.

Dean heard it. He would have done anything to spare his brother from this pain, but he couldn't. He lay gasping on the floor, paralyzed by the agony cutting through him and on the verge of blacking out. He tried to force away the faintness that enveloped him, twisting his hands as the ropes loosened. "No!" he ground out. Sweat trickled down his face and throat as he worked his hands. The hissing in his ears becoming a roar, and he moaned with the effort of staying conscious. Sam tore his attention away from her and turned his fearful gaze back to his brother. He couldn't help him through it this time.

* * *

><p>She finished her reading and withdrew the pin from Dean's effigy. It had done its work, it made no difference now. She smiled sweetly at Sam, playfully dancing the doll in front of his eyes,…and pushed the point into the centre of it.<p>

Sam gasped in shock as the same brutal pain tore through his chest. He strained against his bonds and yelled. His vision swam as it intensified. For a brief second he recalled saying he'd wished he could carry this burden for his brother. If he'd known—

Bobby frantically worked at his bindings. Both brothers were now felled; he was the only one left, and the book-the damned book-was finally in front of them. Benoit stood in the doorway, horrified and sure that the effort was failing. He looked desperately to Bobby, who finished freeing his hands from the loose rope. It was all going wrong, and Ben knew he had to do something. He suddenly lunged at Cecille, crashing against her, his weight carrying her hard to the floor. He wrestled the book from her hands.

"You!" he shouted to Bobby-tossing it to him seconds before the dog was on him. Brutus went at him in a frenzy of protective violence. Benoit screamed and desperately fought it off.

Bobby had his own problems. The dog's attack paled in comparison to the fury of Cecille as she clawed and bit and gouged in her attempt to regain that book. He got a few decent blows in, but she was rabid, and he was losing his hold on it. He cursed and howled as her fingernails dug into his hands, and he felt his grip failing-

But suddenly she went down, her feet abruptly pulled out from under her-

Dean had her ankle in a tight grip. He couldn't get up, but he'd managed to free one hand from his ropes, and he held on like a drowning man as she kicked at him viciously and scrambled to regain her footing. When her sharp heel connected solidly with his temple a third time he released her and lay still. The sudden lack of resistance sent Cecille hopping off balance. She fell awkwardly against the sill of the large open window. She let loose an odd little scream, slipped backward through the open sash, and plummeted to the brick walkway below.

* * *

><p>Brutus immediately halted his attack on Benoit and stood at the window, paws on the sill, looking down and whining piteously. A shaken Benoit crawled out of the room to safety, leaving a smeared trail of blood as he made his way to the nearest room and kicked the door shut behind him. Bobby sat stunned and trying to catch his breath. He didn't dare go near it, but by the dog's plaintive focus he was sure she was lying down there still.<p>

The book was in his hands.

He tucked it into his shirt and turned his attention to Sam, still bound to the chair and moaning. He untied him, and was forced to leave him there while he tended to Dean, who lay deathly still and bleeding. He pulled his other arm free from the tangle and rolled him onto his back, keeping an eye on the fearsome dog at the window.

* * *

><p>When Sam could function again, the two of them dragged Dean carefully out of the room—watching the dog warily. They needn't have worried—it only had eyes for her. Once in the hall, Bobby shut the door—trapping it safely. Sam swabbed at the blood streaming from the nasty cut on his brother's temple, relieved as he began to stir and complain. Bobby went in search of Ben—following the trail and opening the door. Ben was sitting on the floor-binding his badly bitten arms with torn strips of sheet. He looked up fearfully as the older man crouched beside him and took over.<p>

"She's dead—or at least, out of action…" he said in answer to the questioning look on the wounded man's face.

"Good! -jeezus christ! " he sighed, relieved. "What about that dog-?"

"Locked in the blue room for now. Can you get up-?"

Ben nodded and wearily got to his feet. The two rejoined the brothers, both of whom were now up and trying to recover from their experience. Sam supported Dean, who was still groggy and unsteady. The significance struck Benoit then. He was free of her. "Man...I owe you guys...you don't know-"

Bobby shrugged, smiling.. "Same to you. But listen, you should get the hell out of here, go home to your family. You don't want to be involved in this now."

"Yeah, I hear that...but what about you guys?"

"We're used to shit like this, don't worry. Just go."

Ben shook their hands and quickly left. They heard his car roar and drive off.

* * *

><p>"Boys, you alright?" Bobby asked, his face a mask of concern. He examined Dean's split brow, dabbing away the blood that still welled slowly.<p>

Sam was first to respond. "I'm ok now...Holy crap that was rough!" he shuddered. " Dean…man, I don't know how the hell you could have kept going through that!"

Dean held his head in both hands, but he assured Bobby he was fine, even as his knees buckled and Sam steadied him again. "Just need to sit down for a minute."

Sam steered him to a tatty old wingchair in the corner of the wide hall. "I'd better check on her." he said.

"Be careful!" Bobby warned, "and get any dolls she might still have on her."

* * *

><p>Sam descended the stairs and made his way around the building to where she lay. The light from the window illuminated her still form. Sam checked her pulse and was surprised to find it still strong. He was careful not to move her as he retrieved the contents from her pocket. As much as he hated her for what she'd done, he was still human, and he knew he should call 911 and get her help. He quickly returned to where the others were, informing them of her status.<p>

"Crap!" Dean growled. He rubbed his eyes, nursing the headache from the vicious kick she'd given him. "Ok, let's do this. Bobby, here's my keys—bring the car up to the door. Sam; we're gonna have to get all those stupid dolls from that blue room, so Bobby can undo them. 'Course that means we need to do something with the dog. Sam; you go back down-leave the front door open, throw a blanket on her, then whistle and call Brutus. I'll open the door and hopefully he'll run downstairs and stay by her. In the meantime, get your ass into the car while I grab any dolls that look complete. I'll meet you down at the car."

They nodded their agreement. But Dean remembered one important detail, "Sam, you have to get that second pin. She's got it bandaged into the back of her left hand-you have to pull it out and bring it back."

"Ok, I'll do that."

* * *

><p>When they heard the car out front, Sam grabbed a blanket from a bed and made his way out to where Cecille lay. He carefully placed it over her, making sure it didn't impede her breathing. He yanked the pin out of the flesh of her hand and slipped it into his pocket. Then he whistled loudly a few times and called the dog.<p>

Dean could hear it whine and scratch behind the door. He opened it, and the mastiff bounded through and down the stairs, not slowing until he was at her side. Sam had run the opposite way around the house, and entered the waiting Impala. Upstairs, Dean looked around the room. He gathered up any figures that had anything tied to them, bundled them in his shirt and fled back down the stairs, out the front door, and into the front passenger seat.

Bobby floored it away from the house and back in the direction of the hotel.

Sam called 911, reporting the injured person and warning about the loose dog. With that final act of reluctant mercy done, they all sat silent, as they drove. Dean had his eyes closed, pressing a wad of tissue against his temple. Sam, being Sam, was worried...hoping that the paramedics would arrive soon, and he was relieved when the flashing lights passed them, flying in the opposite direction. He hated her, —_really_ hated her-but she was still a broken girl lying still and bleeding on a brick walkway, with a faithful dog crying over her. It was a sad picture. Bobby simply drove, occasionally patting the place under his shirt where the book was stashed, just to reassure himself that he still had it.

* * *

><p>Back at the hotel, the three stumbled out of the car and headed up. They were all exhausted. "Good job, boys." Bobby said wearily. "I know there's a whole lot of crap to discuss, but how about we debrief in the morning?"<p>

"Sounds good." Sam said, eyeing Dean. Dean simply nodded, keeping a hand pressed to his temple. They parted ways in the hallway, and Sam steered his brother to bed. He went about the task of cleaning and bandaging the place she'd kicked him.

Once safely and comfortably tucked in, Sam brought up the subject of their eventful evening. He was appreciative of the effort Dean had made to turn her attention away from them but it troubled him. Dean would have preferred that he drop it, but he knew that was a pipe-dream. He leaned back against his headboard and humoured his younger brother.

"You took a hell of a chance Dean; antagonizing her like that. You should have just let her talk while we undid the ropes." he started.

Dean groaned. "What the hell do you want from me, Sam? Benoit tied all of us loose enough! Jesus, the two of you must've been drummed outa Boy Scouts; you couldn't untie yourselves from a pair of shoes, let alone those slack knots! I had to do something!" He turned over, tugging the covers up to his throat.

Sam knew he was just griping. They'd all tried as hard as they could, and the bottom line was, it was truly over. He got himself comfortable as well, and turned out the light. "Dean...?"

"Yeah?"

"We did it. No more pain.."

"Amen."

"And Dean..?"

He sighed. "What, Sam?"

"Thanks."

"Ditto. Now shut the hell up, will ya?"


	11. Chapter 11

NEXT

_Sam was up first. He yawned and stretched, and reluctantly hauled his big frame out of the bed. The room was still in twilight, he glanced over to see how Dean was faring, and was met by his wakeful, staring eyes._

_"Dude, you're up? I woulda thought you'd be dead 'til at least noon."_

_Dean turned his dull gaze to his brother and shrugged. He said nothing. Sam was a little concerned, and he switched on a light. "You alright, Dean?"_

_"Yeah." He turned back to watching the ceiling with disinterest._

_"Well...you obviously need a shot of caffeine. How 'bout I go down to the café and pick up some breakfast?"_

_He didn't answer._

_"Dean-?"_

_"Yeah, sure...whatever."_

_Sam threw on some respectable clothing, flattened his bed-hair back down and headed down to the lobby. The café had just opened, so the coffee was freshly brewed and the muffins still steaming. He ordered two extra larges and bought an armful of the baked goodies, hoping it would force Dean out of his funk. He carried his treats happily—almost making it to the stairs before he realized he'd forgotten a paper. He really wanted something to read, so he turned back to the lobby, purchased one, and headed back to the room. He stood in front of the door, juggling his purchases for a moment so that he could unlock the door. He'd just about managed to do that, when an ear-splitting sound broke the silence from within. Sam dropped his things in horror—_

_-Gunshot-_

_He threw the door open and hit the lightswitch, only to be greeted by a terrible scene. Dean was sprawled on his bed, gun in hand. His powder-burned shirt was already sodden, red flowed over his chest, pulsing out from the hole over his heart._

_Choking back a scream, Sam grabbed Dean by the shoulders, shaking him, pressing his fingers to his blood spattered throat, pushing hard on the wound, trying frantically to staunch the blood and life that streamed relentlessly through his fingers. He watched, mute with shock, as the light faded from Dean's wide open eyes._

* * *

><p>Sam sat bolt upright, with an incoherent shout. He was soaked with sweat, disoriented and still filled with emotion. He fumbled with the lamp, knocking it off the nightstand uselessly. He threw his covers away and dove to his brother's bedside, grabbing hold of his chest in the pitch dark and searching for the place where the bullet had entered mere moments ago.<p>

Dean awoke, startled. He didn't know what the hell was going on, only that something had attacked him in his sleep. He swung a fist in the direction of the presence hovering over him. It connected, he heard a sharp yelp and a mumbled curse as he rolled out of bed, grabbed his gun and hit the wall switch in one practiced, fluid motion.

Sam sat on the carpet between the beds, pressing a hand to his bloodied nose.

"What the hell were you _doing?" _Dean demanded, incredulous, and still pulsing with adrenalin.

Sam opened one teary eye. "I thought I...I saw you; you'd...ugh, I had a dream, alright?" he growled, tipping his head back.

Dean was still far from feeling forgiving. Sam had scared the crap out of him—he still panted with panic. But he sighed, grabbed his brother's hand and hauled him up off the floor. Sam sat on the edge of the bed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Well did I _break_ it?" Dean demanded, with reluctant guilt.

"No…you must be getting rusty."

Dean left and brought him a cold, wet towel, throwing it at his head. "You know, you're damn lucky I didn't shoot you, you stupid idiot! What did you think was happening anyway?"

Sam groaned, not wanting to divulge it. His nose stung with a steady beat of eye-watering pain.

"Well? what the hell was _that_ about?"

Sam sighed. "I thought you had…offed yourself. I dreamed we were both awake—I went down to get coffee, and before I got back in the door, I heard you shoot yourself."

"Oh... Huh… Well I guess that's pretty heavy. Sorry about your shnozz, but you oughta know what'll happen if you wake me up like that. But why would you think that, anyway? Cecille's finished, she can't hurt me now. And you already made me promise."

"I know, Dean. But I guess I was still worried because Bobby hasn't undone the spells yet. And you were… well, pretty bummed-out yesterday. "

"Oh." Dean looked down in embarrassment, remembering their emotional argument, and the reason behind it. He felt awful, being the source of Sam's fears, and subsequent nightmare. And a bloody nose on top of it... But despite that, he didn't feel the least bit morose. Instead, he felt-weightless, and free. Cecille's claws were pulled back out of his nerves and mind and soul, and he was now able to appreciate the moment again. "Well, maybe we should wake his lazy old arse up and get that done first thing. Hey; why don't you go down and buy us some coffees. Take your time...I'll just stay here, you know…thinking…in the dark…all alone."

"That's not funny, you jerk!"

"Aw, sure it is. Anyway, I'll go—you're kinda disgusting at the moment." He rooted around and found his pants. "Any requests?"

"Just coffee, a big one—and maybe a pint of blood."

Dean snorted and headed down.

* * *

><p>Sam lay back. The bleeding was slowing, almost stopped. He marveled at his brother's lightning-fast reflexes, even when he wasn't fully awake. He sure had a healthy self-preservation instinct. The dream was fading fast from his imagination, as dreams will do, thank goodness. He was grateful for that; it had seemed so terribly real. The towel Dean had thrown him had helped. Nothing brought you into the present like a punch in the nose and a cold, wet towel wrapped around your face.<p>

Dean seemed to be taking his sweet time. Sam tested his nose, pleased that nothing escaped it when he let go and stood up straight. He went into the can, washed up, and decided to pester Bobby. To his surprise, Bobby was awake. Apparently he'd been so, ever since they'd said goodnight many hours ago.

"Bobby! Did you even sleep?" Sam demanded.

Bleary-eyed, the older man smiled. "Oh, well, not really, I guess. I was reading the book. Christ, Sam; we are damned lucky that girl wasn't a scholar. There's stuff in here…well, let's just say _Dean_ was damned lucky."

Sam saw the dolls, all laid out neatly. Each was now devoid of any individuality. All the accoutrements that had given them power and identity were stripped away. The book was there too. "Bobby, you undid all the magic, didn't you?"

He smiled sheepishly. "Yeah. I was gonna grab some shut-eye, but...well, I saw what went down between you and Dean in the parking lot. You don't have to tell me; I figured out what it was about. And when I had everything in my hands, I just had to fix it, Sam. I _had_ to."

Sam took stock of his weary friend. Bobby wasn't young anymore. The fact that he had stayed up all night, safe-guarding Dean's, and other strangers' well-being—was a poignant reminder of his quality of character. "Thanks Bobby, really."

Bobby shrugged it off, as was his way. "Hope you brought some breakfast."

Dean knocked, laden with his coffee cups and paper bags. "Figured you were here." he said to Sam. He unloaded his burden and they all dug in.

Sam brought his brother up to speed. "Bobby finished it, Dean. No more spells—no more magic. Just a bunch of dry grass."

Dean looked to Bobby, raising an eyebrow. "Thought we agreed we'd do this in the morning?"

"Doesn't matter...it's all done. And thanks to you two, we have this damned thing safely in hand. I'm telling ya, Dean, there's shit in here…" He shuddered.

Dean got the idea. "Glad to be a part of it all, then, Bobby. If we can keep this cursed thing out of circulation, maybe it'll all be worth it."

Bobby was quiet. "Yeah... I was tempted to burn it. Safest way to keep it out of the wrong hands."

"Yeah—fine, but what if other versions of this surface? How would you know how to beat it? You have to keep it around for that reason alone."

Bobby had to accept Dean's opinion. Hell, if anyone had a right to one in that regard, he did. "I guess you're right. But I think I'll melt those pins down anyway. You can do the honours of crushing those skulls to dust if you like, Dean."

Dean snorted. "Just give me a hammer."

Bobby stretched and yawned. "So, boys, we're pretty much done here now. And I have to say it; I am real happy you were there with me on this. Couldn't have done it alone."

Dean laughed. "Hey, don't sell yourself short, Bobby. If you were with me at the Blackbird that first night, no guarantee it woulda been _me_ she ended up taking home."

Bobby stroked his moustache and raised an eyebrow with mock-pride. "Yeah...true. I do have that distinguished look that chicks love."

Sam chimed in, "Hey, what about me?"

"Sorry Sammy...you're strictly ugly-friend material." Dean teased. "But seriously, Bobby...don't ever hesitate to bring us in when you need it. I guarantee we'll be calling you up in future when we're stuck and need to pick your twisted little brain."

Bobby prayed he'd never again have to bring danger to their door. He also knew that scenario was unlikely. "Well, thanks ...anyhow."

"Any time, Bobby" they said, almost in unison.

He smiled with a sad fondness.

* * *

><p>Check-out was 11:00 am. They all packed up, and grabbed lunch on the way out. Bobby paid. He bought a round of beers and raised his glass. "Well...to a world without evil." he said simply.<p>

They raised theirs. "Well don't take _all_ the fun out of it!" Dean added.

"Amen!"

* * *

><p>Bobby had left on his journey home. Sam and Dean were now left to their own devices. They had been driving around aimlessly for a few days, not quite sure about what they wanted next. "How's the head?" Sam asked, with his usual concern.<p>

"Ok." Dean said. He was driving, of course. It felt good, being behind that wheel...felt right. "How's the beak?"

Sam just rubbed his nose and laughed. He was reading the New Orleans paper, occasionally reading interesting bits out loud. A particular article caught his attention. "Hey! Dean, listen—" He read the story. A young woman, Cecille Agathe Daumier, had been found outside her house, having fallen two stories from a window, apparently after some sort of fracas. Someone had called 911, and she was taken to hospital with non-life-threatening injuries. However, she died two days later, of complications.

"Complications from what?" Dean asked, intrigued, and feeling a guilty elation.

"You're not gonna believe it. She got some weird infection that started on the back of her hand. Says here that they amputated but they couldn't stop it."

"Whoa. Poetic justice."

"No shit!"

* * *

><p>They had no destination at the moment. They had cash, from their months of working in Mexico. A successful hunt under their belts again. And they had the satisfaction that they were able to come through for their old friend for a change. Life wasn't bad at the moment.<p>

Sam was thinking. "Dean...have you thought about where to go next?"

"Uh…not really. Why? Got somewhere in mind?"

He did. "Well, I was thinking...maybe we should try something different…"

"Different, okaaaaayyyy..."

"Yeah. Ever thought of going north…?"

"Just how north-ish are we talking here?"

"Well...I was thinking we could check out some places in, uh…Canada."

Dean looked at him like he's sprouted another head. "Wha...Why?"

"I don't know… I just thought it'd be different, for a change. Real anonymity, for one. And I dunno, just…something _new_."

Dean thought for a moment. He smiled to himself. "What the hell, Sammy…east Canada or west?"

End.

* * *

><p>Hey, thanks to you all who are following these tales, and more to those commenting. It makes my day, it really does. I know some of you know these stories from other sites, yet still take the time to comment on old, familiar territory (thanks Lisa, for one ;) ) And for others for whom these are new, -I will always try to re-edit regularly so that I can keep updating every other day. No sense in following a story if it has long, boring pauses between updates, right? Thanks again, Seeya...Mal<p> 


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